synopsis: jack doesn't realize how close you are to the day shift residents until they start stealing you from him. but he is definitely not jealous, no matter what the rest of the night shift thinks...
- or -
the 5 times day shift covers nights and the 1 you're asked to cover days
contains: jack is down BAD, santos/langdon twins propaganda, bsf samira mohan AND bsf night shift crew, me pushing my mowalsh agenda, jack has adopted the pittlings at this point, a l o t of blurred lines between people, age gap (reader is in her 20's), suggestive at times, everyone calls reader sweets, no use of y/n, this part is LONG it grew a mind of it's own (15.7k words i'm so sorry)
note: FIRST, happy s2 finale day!!! idk what i'm gonna do with myself but I have two other seperate fics in my drafts ready to post at the drop of a hat depending on how tonight goes
-now, most importantly, i'm SO serious when i say i read every single comment, tag, and reblog on part 1 a million times over, i love every single one of you that read it and showing it love with my whole entire heart :')
-this part when through soooooo many changes, it took forever for me to be happy with it and i hope it lives up to the unreasonably high standards i've set for it, there's so many jack x sweets moments I removed from this I might just put them in their own little world of mini fics at this point maybe?
-this also STILL isn't the part i orginally set out to write so there is at least one more addition to the jack x sweets universe if anyone's interested
-ENJOY <3
technically part 2 to this fic but they're both completely standalone, you don't have to read one to get the other
dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
1. Cherry Limeade Sweet Tea
The night shift could be…territorial. And that was putting it nicely.
It was just different from days. You had to be hardwired a certain way to make it through full moons and haunting hours and eerie mornings when the world was deciding what it was going to be that day. There was a certain attitude, a very particular personality, you needed to have in order to stay sane. It definitely wasn’t for the faint of heart.
The residents tended not to acknowledge that until they actually experienced it firsthand. Shen and Ellis, who had been some of the only ones to master it and seen others crash and burn, called it trial by fire. Crus, who’d proven himself to be a fast learner, was more optimistic, said they just needed to keep an open mind. Jack thought they were mostly just overconfident. The constant buzz of the day shift, the ever present thrum of consistent questions, was absolutely nothing like the unpredictable chaos of the night shift. Most residents didn’t understand that.
Dr. Samira Mohan, to your incredible delight, was one of the ones who thrived during the night.
She understood. She could adapt. She was your best friend, your closest confidant, the one you’d attached yourself to within a couple days of being at the PTMC. She was what you missed most about days. And you were what she loved most about nights.
So when Ellis needed someone to cover for her one night she jumped at the chance.
It started immediately.
You’d left yours and Jack’s place early. Kissing him slowly on your way out the door as you shoved your scrubs in a tote bag larger than the one you usually carried, telling him you’d see him at work. He tried not to be offended when you told him Samira was waiting for you outside, you guys had an early dinner reservation before your shift.
It was fine. That was perfectly normal. The world wasn’t going to crash and burn just because he had to skip his usual routine with you. He wouldn’t spontaneously combust because you weren't there, he wasn’t that addicted to you.
But then you walk in with Samira and barely look at him. You continue your conversation with her even as you walk up to him and hand him his drink. You flash him a smile and kiss his cheek quickly before walking around the desk to set your drink in your usual corner.
“Seriously I don’t know how you do it,” Samira waits for you. She lingers on the opposite side of central and takes a sip from a large drink in her hands. “I didn’t even know I could want this. What is it again?”
Any other time this would be fine. Jack was not addicted or clingy or, god forbid, possessive. He liked to think he wasn’t like that. But you smile at her in that gentle way he craves constantly. And then Jack recognizes the logo on the pastry bag in Samira’s hand.
It’s from the bakery you’d told him you heard about online. One you’d tried only once before and became obsessed with. You’d been talking about the memory of their donuts since he’d taken you to try it. It was out of your way so you rarely had it, usually saving the experience for special occasions. It’d been a while since the two of you had stopped by.
But now Samira was handing you the bag from that exact bakery. She’d driven you all the way there. And she was holding a drink from your favorite cafe. You’d bought her one too when you bought him his. You were beaming when you looked up at her and started walking towards her. You’d barely even glanced at him.
There’s a feeling that settles deep in his gut. This burning that feels like it’s poisoning him from the inside out that not even the drink you brought him can make go away. He feels the urge to make you look at him. Remind you that he was right there, that you didn’t need anyone else.
Jack stabs his straw into his drink a little too harshly and takes a sip, swallowing back the jealousy he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t feel.
“A cherry limeade sweet tea,” You wind your arm through Samira’s and start walking towards the locker room with her. “It’s got some added guarana extract for -”
“Extra natural caffeine. Slower absorption so you don’t feel the crash as badly.”
“Exactly,” You face her as you walk, excitement taking over your features in response to the fact that she understands your choice exactly. Your head falls on her shoulder. “I missed you, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Samira rests hers on top of yours, she really needed this after… well, everything. “I missed you too.”
And it only gets worse from there.
“This is torture,” Shen drops his head on the counter at central. “It’s like I’m not even here, Sweets hasn’t noticed me at all.”
“Tell me about it,” Jack mutters from where he’s standing a few feet over. His head is resting on one hand as he slowly clicks buttons on a keyboard one by one.
“Aren’t you two needy today.” Lena says without looking up at either of them.
“We have a routine, okay?” Shen frowns as he finally looks up. “The two of us are supposed to be out in triage together right now. Who else am I supposed to tell every detail of my day off to?”
Lena shakes her head, barely glancing up over the rim of her glasses. “You’re allowed to not be attached at the hip 24/7, you know that right?”
“I know that,” Shen rolls his eyes at that and points in the direction of where you and Samira are walking out of South 18. “Do they know that? I mean did they even get anything done on days?”
Jack is staring at the corner where your drink always sits. His own is turning room temperature right next to it. He’d left it there soon after you had handed it to him, a silent hope that maybe he’d get to steal a moment with you later. He doesn’t realize Shen and Lena are looking at him until he looks up again. He sighs.
“I actually think days was the most productive when they worked together,” The stolen moment with you he needed for his mental wellbeing was disappearing right before his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
His attention shoots across the ED at the sound of your laugh. It wasn’t even 10:00 PM yet and he already felt like he was going through withdrawal.
And to make it worse Mateo had apparently found a way to slot himself right beside the two of you flawlessly. He finds you guys and then suddenly the three of you are in the middle of laughing about something together. He swears he’s never seen any of you look so alive.
Shen seems to notice the same thing. “Okay, that’s just not fair.”
“You know, either one of you could easily go and make conversation.” Lena shakes her head at them.
“That’s crazy,” Jack shakes his head as if it was obvious. “I’m not gonna go interrupt their time.”
Lena rolls her eyes and she’s already mentally preparing for it. It was gonna be a long night for all of them. Most of them anyway.
****
Emery Walsh was having the absolute time of her life.
“Why so sad?” She leans on the counter next to Jack where he’s entering orders for an echo for one of his patients. She gives him a mock pout as she tips her head to the side. “Girlfriend ignoring you?”
“She’s not ignoring me,” Jack immediately shoots her a glare. “We’re just busy tonight.”
Walsh looks around the ED. There’s not a single person in the hall and three whole empty beds. She even thinks there might be a couple empty chairs in the waiting room. “Are we in the same ED right now?”
Jack rolls his eyes. It’s an instinct that comes naturally whenever Emery’s around. He respects her, he does. She just has also mastered pushing his buttons like nobody else does. It’s a talent, really. “Is there a reason you’re down here?”
“To see Samira, obviously.”
“You don’t have a surgery to perform or something?” Jack picks up the tablet with his patient information and turns away from her. Maybe she won’t see the irritation in his eyes.
“No? Your doctors don’t spend time moping around like you do. They’re actually good at their jobs which makes mine easier,” She falls into step next to him as he starts walking away from her without another word. “And I’m taking advantage of it to finally make my move.”
“I repeat, don’t you have a job to go do?”
“I’ll do it after I talk to Samira,” Emery sighs when Jack doesn’t even give her some smartass quip back at that. So she grabs his arm and stops him from walking away from her. “Look, I’m in a good mood -”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m gonna choose to ignore your tone,” She also ignores the glare Jack shoots at her. Again. “Why don’t you let me help us both out?”
Jack’s willing to try anything at this point. “I’m listening.”
She gives him one of those smiles he hates. One that means she’s clearly plotting something in her head. He’s convinced she could be a criminal mastermind if she wanted to.
“Hey,” Walsh grabs Shen as he walks past them. “Sweets and Lover Boy over here are gonna make a run to the good vending machines at L&D, can you grab Mateo and cover her and Mohan’s patient in North 4?”
“Deal,” Shen lights up immediately and looks at Jack. “Bring me back some of the good gummy bears.”
“Ooh, I want some of those too,” Walsh starts walking backwards towards where she’d last seen Samira. “And a pack of those cookies, the really soft ones.”
Another eye roll. “Anything else? Maybe a steak dinner while we’re at it.”
“Hey, cut the attitude,” Walsh points at him, a silent warning. “I’m getting you your fix, aren’t I?”
He knows he can’t argue with her there. He watches as she walks into one of the patient rooms. Seconds later she’s sending you out. Alone. For the first time all night.
Jack is making his way towards you without a second thought, rushing before someone can pull either of you away again.
Your eyes light up when you see him and he thinks he could melt at the look you give him and the way you say his name. “Hi.”
“Come on.” He takes your hand and starts pulling you in the direction of the elevator.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t say anything else until the elevator doors close behind you. That’s when he grabs you by your waist and gently pushes you back into the corner.
“What’s gotten into you?” You giggle a little bit as you bring him in close. He only shakes his head, silently taking a second to just look at you. To memorize everything, your smile and how you feel against him and the glimmer in your eyes when he finally forces himself to look back at them instead of at how plush and soft your lips look right now.
“Nothing,” His voice goes low, dropping in the silence of the elevator. You’re the one who leans forward to kiss him and he has to try really hard to bite back the moan he can feel building inside him. He forces himself to pull away, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Just missed you.”
“You’re cute,” The elevator doors slide open and Jack’s never hated a machine more. You push yourself off the wall, pressing yourself closer to him as you do. You squeeze past him and start walking out the elevator, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “You coming?”
Jack makes it through the rest of the shift just fine. Until he goes to try and find you after rounds. He finds you and Samira together again. Walsh’s solution wasn’t viable long term, as it turns out.
“Hey, I have tomorrow off. Do you wanna go to that place we’ve been wanting to try?”
“Only if you’re up for it. God, you have to be exhausted.”
“I actually think this might be the most alive I’ve felt in months.”
At least he has time to practice his perfectly neutral response by the time you find him to let him know you’ll meet him back at home.
“Have fun,” He kisses you in the safety of the locker room, sneaking his credit card in your bag as he does. “I’ll wait up for you.”
You don’t bother arguing with him, knowing he wouldn’t listen to you either way. Jack is left watching you walk away, sighing deeply as he does and screwing his eyes shut to make an attempt to ground himself.
At least this was a one time thing. Everything after this would be perfectly fine.
2 & 3. Cucumber Mint Lemonade & Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso w/ a quad shot, extra hot
So maybe Jack had turned to the dark side. He’d taken a page straight out of Emery Walsh’s playbook. Not that he’d ever admit that to her.
He was scheming. Just a little bit. Not enough to be diabolical but enough for Mateo to definitely catch on and bribe Perlah to stay a bit later to linger so she could watch it play out and update him.
This would work. It had to. It was going to. If there was one thing he could do right it was plan and he’d thought this through. Briefly. In the few seconds it took him to walk from the locker room to where all the day shift residents were hovering by the computers finishing their charting. It was good enough.
He had to do it now while you were distracted. Emma had pulled you away to get a second opinion on a patient, this was his best chance.
“Shen needs a few of his shifts covered. I have four of them and need some takers,” He announces himself, making most of them look up. Samira’s about to say something and he puts a hand up. “Someone who isn’t Mohan.”
Jack doesn’t know if Whitaker does it subconsciously or on purpose but he watches it play out in slow motion. For just a moment Whitaker looks at him. Then his eyes find you across the ED and flick to Samira quickly after. Finally they flicker back to him and maybe it’s the guilt but he swears there’s a ghost of a smirk that Whitaker flashes him. He’s perceptive, Jack will give him that.
He looks a little smug when he asks, “Why not?”
“You all need to cover a night shift eventually,” The answer comes out quickly as Jack crosses his arms in front of him. “You can’t keep sticking them all on her.”
“I don’t mind.” Samira is quick to respond. If she wasn’t in her last couple months of her residency she’d have asked to move to night shift the second you had transferred.
“I know. And we appreciate you,” Jack definitely feels just a little bit guilty. “But it’s also good for their experience as doctors.”
It was technically true. On top of that, he also couldn’t afford to be down an attending. If day shift didn’t have enough coverage half the time then the night shift definitely didn’t. Most of the residents were reserved for the day shift and his new one had only just started. And as much confidence as he had in Ellis and Crus to pick up the extra work, he didn’t want to put it all on them. Maybe he’d even get lucky and one of the newer residents would like it enough to stick around long term.
“I say we go top to bottom,” Santos leans back in her chair, gladly giving her eyes a break from her charting. She stretches in her seat before motioning beside her. “Langdon’s the only one besides Samira who’s got seniority here. Which means he gets to be our sacrifice to the night shift gods.”
“Oh, no,” Langdon’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head quickly. It’s comical watching him make an attempt at disappearing behind the screen he’s charting at considering how much he towers over it. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
That statement paired with the horrified look that flashes on Jack’s face is enough to intrigue every single one of them. They have to know everything immediately.
“How come?” Santos looks more amused than she’s ever been, suddenly much more awake than she had been.
“I can’t do nights, I've tried,” A visible shudder runs through Langdon at the memory. “It did not go well.”
Jack figures he should disagree. He figures that as an attending, a chief attending, he should use it as a teaching moment. Tell them that they could never underestimate their jobs or whatever. But the memory of the absolute week from hell set off by Langdon’s presence in the ED past 9pm was something he didn’t think would ever stop haunting him.
They still pretend it didn’t happen and calmly start ushering him out the second it starts getting just a little bit too late. So maybe they were a little bit superstitious. It came naturally when working nights.
“You weren’t,” Jack refuses to look at Langdon when he says it. “You weren’t that bad.”
Langdon frowns, “You hesitated when you said that.”
There’s silence for a second while Jack just looks slightly haunted. He can’t relive that week. Not right now. Or maybe ever again. So to change the topic he tells them, “If you guys can’t decide, I'm picking for you.”
“Sorry, dad,” Javadi gives him a look that perfectly resembles a bratty teenager at the statement and Jack only rolls his eyes at her. He thinks that look alone might’ve aged him a bit. "Where's Shen off to that he needs four days off anyway?”
“Back home,” Jack looks around for any sign of Shen and relaxes a little when he doesn’t see him, not wanting to set off another passionate ramble just yet. “He leaves on Thursday. His sister got last minute tickets to a concert he wanted to go to. Some pop star he hasn’t stopped talking about.”
“I can cover a night for him,” Mel barely takes a break from her charting to look up at Jack. “My day off is on Friday and Becca has plans all weekend anyway. I don’t mind staying and pulling a double.”
“Perfect,” And it really is. Mel had covered a couple nights before and she was good at it. There was definitely no possible way this could go wrong for him. He turns his attention to Whitaker, Santos, and Javadi. “I’ve got three more to cover.”
“I’ll take one,” Santos offers herself up next. “If only to prove that I’m better at nights than Golden Boy.”
“Okay,” Langdon spins in his chair to look at her and Santos copies the motion. “It wasn’t all my fault.”
“You sure about that?”
Jack doesn’t quite like the phrasing of that. He could already feel it backfiring on all of them. He stops their bickering before they can really fully start. He’s talking mostly to Santos when he says, “Night’s aren’t easy, you know.”
“Please,” Santos crosses her arms, already pushing for a challenge. “How much harder than days could it be? Most people are sleeping already, what could possibly be different about it?”
“Oh my god, wait!” Javadi sits up then, cutting off the comment Jack had been about to make.
She’d spent the last few moments recalling every single bit of information she knew about both John Shen and also every major pop star. She knows exactly who he’s talking about immediately.
“I’ll take the last two but tell him he has to bring me back some merch,” She’s typing something on her phone as she says it and Jack swears he hears Shen’s ringtone go off from somewhere. “I want the pink t-shirt, he’ll know which one I’m talking about. I just sent him the money for it so he can’t say no.”
And that covers it.
Sure, you’d worked days with all of them before. And okay, maybe Jack hadn’t actually realized how close you were to the residents until they’d started showing up at his place one by one on your nights off.
But this was different. This was work. And not all of them were Samira Mohan, the one person you trusted as much as him, maybe even a little more.
It’d be fine. It was only four days. How hard could it possibly be?
****
At first it really isn’t that bad.
Mel is perfect. She’d done a week on nights a few months back and fit in seamlessly. Every now and then she’d pick up another night shift. And even now, in the middle of a double, she’s doing great.
You bring her a drink at the start of your shift, a Cucumber Mint Lemonade, and at first nothing is different to how the night usually runs.
And then Jack notices that you are not letting him cling to you the way he tends to.
It isn’t even on purpose most of the time. You’re just always there. You take whichever cases need you most, sometimes extras on top of them, and it’s the same way Jack picks up his. He’s used to maneuvering around you, a hand on the small of your back as he moves past you or feeling your hand on his bicep as you do the same. It just happens. He never notices how much he needs that until it isn’t happening.
You spend almost every second of downtime during Mel’s shift at her side. The two of you spend all night talking about one of the shows you both watch, theorizing and debating and admiring. It keeps her mind awake and it keeps you busy, it’s a win win.
For everyone except Jack.
Every time he’s about to get his hands on you, you wriggle away from him and flash him a smile before you step just too far out of reach. You gravitate towards Mel and get really excited when you talk and it’s fine.
Jack just watches you talk and it’s okay. Honestly.
But then you don’t even risk lingering in empty spaces with him and he finally acknowledges that he might be going crazy, actually. He nearly bites Mateo’s head off when he points it out and has to quickly apologize. And then begrudgingly admits that maybe he does have a problem.
When the sun starts coming up somewhere off in the distance he overhears it.
“Hey,” Mel stops you before you can go check on a patient the two of you had taken on together. “Thank you.”
You tip your head at her, smiling but a little curious. “For what?”
“For talking to me all night long. I really like working with you. It was fun,” Mel shrugs a little bit and then goes silent as she debates whether or not to finish her thought. Ultimately she does, knowing you’d want to hear it. “And for listening.”
Your smile softens then and you nod your head. You hold your hand out in a silent question and wait until she nods a bit. You set it on her arm, a brief, present hold that tells her you’re there. You see her. It only lasts for a second but your point is made. “Of course. Always.”
Mel’s smiling as she walks away. She’s never minded night shifts but she thinks briefly that they’re significantly better now that you’re a part of them. Although that might just be a you thing, she realizes.
Jack keeps to himself for the rest of the shift. Without any more complaining. But when the clock finally hits 7:00 AM he puts Ellis in charge of hand-offs and drags you out of the ED, not even bothering with the mountain of paperwork he was leaving behind.
****
The next night Jack finds out very quickly that he was completely right about Santos.
She’s the one that convinces him that there might actually be something out there that can sense when someone walks into the night shift with too much overconfidence and chooses to make their lives miserable as punishment.
Jack had gone in early to finish his charting from the night before and the very first thing he sees when Trinity Santos walks in is her stumbling right into a gurney. The exact same way Frank Langdon had. She laughs it off. Just like he had. She even cracks the exact same bad joke that he had.
“Since when has that thing been there?”
He and Ellis share a look, wide eyed and absolutely terrified. They already know it’s going to be a very long night.
As hard as they try, they can’t pinpoint what it is that’s throwing Santos off her game. She chugs through the drink you bring her, a Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso with a quad shot, despite the fact that she’d specifically requested it extra hot. She just isn’t able to get a grip on anything. She feels like it’s her first day of med school all over again and it’s killing her.
Jack tries sending Ellis to talk to her but she refuses to get within ten feet of her.
“Abbot, I love my girl, I think she’s great on days,” Ellis is standing very safely on the opposite side of the ED as Santos. “But her and Langdon are like our version of the twins from the shining. I can’t go through that again.”
Jack sends Crus to talk to her next, figuring that maybe confiding in her senior resident for the night would help. It does. Briefly anyway.
Just as she’s starting to get the hang of things in triage a teenager with alcohol poisoning ruins her scrubs and her brand new pair of shoes. She loses all control she’d regained in a fraction of a second.
When she comes back wearing new scrubs and a pair of shoes she’d borrowed from you she pinches the bridge of her nose, “This is Langdon’s fault. I don’t know how but it is.”
And it somehow only gets worse from there. He sends Lena next but it’s no use. Nothing works. So finally, begrudgingly, Jack pulls you into the breakroom. He tells you to hang tight for a second and moments later he walks back in with Trinity.
“Sit down,” Jack walks past her and plants himself in the chair next to yours.
Slowly, Trinity walks closer. She looks between the two of you and then very carefully pulls the chair in front of the two of you out and sinks down. “Is this what it feels like when your parents ground you?”
“Why do you think we’re gonna ground you?” Jack doesn’t even acknowledge the wording of the question.
He’d gotten used to those comments almost as soon as the residents, your friends, had started spending time at his place. Mom and dad. Parents. You need to promise to never break up, I’m too old to be a child of divorce. Most of them were from Santos and Javadi and they were jokes almost all the time. But it also meant they were comfortable around him. They trusted him. There was probably some sort of HR rule against this dynamic but none of them really cared. They looked up to him and valued his opinion and the last thing he wanted was to make them feel afraid of having a bad day. He didn’t want them to carry the same guilt he did.
You watch as the frown twists its way onto Jack’s face. His entire face scrunches in confusion as he tries to decode Trinity Santos. You know what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. You know he’s putting a little bit of blame, no matter how unfounded, on himself. You’ve seen the effort he puts in to make everyone feel comfortable and confident here on the night shift, the support he tries to give every one of them. There were already enough unpredictable factors that went into their nights, he didn’t have to be another one of them.
“Because I messed up,” Trinity says it like it should be obvious. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but I must be doing something wrong for this to keep happening. Once, fine. After that? And I don’t even know how to fix it and it sucks.”
“Hang on,” Jack leans forward on the table and you silently let him take control of the conversation. “You’re not doing anything wrong. It just happens to be a shitty night.”
That doesn’t seem to help her much. “Yeah but this doesn’t happen to me. I know what I’m doing so the fact that it keeps going wrong means it has to be…user error or whatever.”
“Listen to me,” Jack taps the table in front of her to force her to look at him. She huffs but looks at him anyway. “You can’t control everything that happens here, no matter how hard you try. Some nights, or days, are just gonna be bad ones and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only thing you can do is try to make it through the day. With our help. That’s what we’re here for.”
Trinity, for once, doesn’t know what to say. There's a sharpness behind her eyes and the back of her throat tightens. She looks away, afraid that if either of you look at her a second longer she’ll break completely.
Finally, after a few seconds, you stand up. You hold a hand out to her and she looks up at you. “Come on.”
She looks at you for a moment, swallows down her emotion, and then finally says, “Sure you wanna do that, Sweets?”
“Trin, you know better. You can’t get rid of me,” You tell her, flashing her a smile, still holding out your hand.
“You better hope bad luck isn’t contagious,” She says when she finally takes your hand, letting you drag her up.
“Well, a captain goes down with the ship right?” You shrug, already starting to pull her out of the room.
“And who made you captain?”
“You really think anyone’s gonna argue with me?”
Even in just the few moments it takes for you to walk out of the breakroom with her, Trinity already feels lighter on her feet.
And it works. Jack’s words combined with you at her side do wonders. She graduates from an easy patient to a medium one with no problem. Then a slightly more complicated one and it’s okay. But then one of your other patients needs you and the second you leave her side though she reverts back to attracting every bad luck charm on the planet.
After that she rivals Jack in terms of clinginess. Trinity will not leave your side. She even follows you to the bathroom at one point, afraid that the metaphorical baby grand piano will fall on her head the moment you leave. You are single handedly helping her keep her head on straight and her sanity intact, she refuses to let you out of her sight.
Jack does not get a single moment alone with you the entire shift. The only reason he makes it through the night is because he figures it could be worse. He also figures maybe Santos needs this. He’s willing to make the sacrifice. Just this once.
Ellis is the one that points it out. Santos does not like the observation. You were singlehandedly the one who saved her shift from being almost as bad as one of Langdon’s. So maybe night shift wasn’t for either of them but at least she knew you and Jack had her back. As long as she had that she could push through.
4. Cookie Butter Iced Latte
The third night Shen was gone is maybe the hardest.
You get a text from Jack at exactly 7:02 PM. How do I fix her? it says. Nothing else. No elaboration.
Before you could ask him what exactly he meant your phone had dinged with another incoming message. From Ellis this time. A video. It was pointed at the fluorescent lights above her head but you could hear the voices loud and clear.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I-I mean what do I even know right? I, like, barely slept last night cause I was so worried about today. Or this morning technically I guess? I mean if Santos couldn’t do it what hope do I have, you know what I mean? All I keep hearing from the other residents is how different the night shift is and I don’t do good with different. Like seriously, it’s a problem. Langdon is still here and I know you think he’s cursed or something but he can’t possibly be any worse than I would be. I’m not prepared. I think if you let me have like a crash course or something or some training maybe, maybe, I could work my way here for a shift but at this present moment I feel like -”
“Javadi!” Jack had cut her off in the middle of her rambling. “Hold that thought.”
I think she might’ve actually broken him. was Ellis’ comment. I think I can actually see him buffering.
Thirty minutes later you’re walking into the PTMC, four hours before you were scheduled to be there, happily sipping on your drink despite the change in schedule.
“Oh, thank god,” Jack might’ve actually developed a sixth sense with how fast he’s able to tell you’ve walked through the ambulance bay doors. An arm around your waist, a kiss to the side of your head, and a moment to finally breathe. It’d been the longest thirty minutes of his life.
He takes your drink out of your hands and takes a sip. He doesn’t even flinch at the obscene amount of sugar and syrups in it like usual. “I talked to her and she listened but I don’t think she actually heard me. I don’t know what else to say. You’re better at this.”
You smile at him and let him keep it, clearly needing the extra caffeine for once. “I think she just needs a familiar face. Give me five minutes.”
You find Javadi in an empty room pacing behind a curtain. Her face lights up the moment she lays eyes on you. “I thought you weren’t supposed to come in until later, aren’t you covering part of Donnie’s shift in the morning?”
“I came to bring you something,” You hold out the fresh coffee in your hand. “Iced Cookie Butter Latte with extra vanilla and cinnamon on top, just like you like it.”
It’s like a weight is lifted off of her shoulders immediately. “I hope you know I worship the ground you walk on.”
You let her chug her way through about a quarter of her drink, watching her for a second before you ask, “You wanna tell me what made you doubt yourself?”
“What,” She can’t help herself. She takes another sip before looking away from you, avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about?”
You sit on the edge of the hospital bed and let out a soft sigh. “What makes you think you can’t make it through nights? You were excited about it a few days ago.”
She lets out a small noise of discontent and still refuses to look at you, “Did Abbot tell you I freaked out?”
You shake your head softly, “He was just worried about you.”
“He wouldn’t have to be if he just let me go home.”
“Vic,” You turn to her and your voice goes soft. Gentle as you try to get your point across. “He made you stay in our guest room that night we stayed up too late finishing our Twilight marathon. You really think he would just let you walk out of this ED knowing how good and capable you are?”
There’s silence for a second. Then she takes another sip of her drink.
Until finally she tells you, “My…my mom was telling me about some of Walsh’s nightmare cases that she’s had to deal with. She said nights are - are reckless and hard and only the toughest people can handle them. And I know that was supposed to mean she didn’t think I could. And then Trinity had such a hard time and it basically convinced me I couldn't do it either. And I see how you guys walk out of here some mornings completely exhausted and it’s hard enough to make it through some days and I just don’t want to mess up.”
It takes you a second to figure out what to say. In that time Victoria moves to your side and collapses on the bed next to you. Her head falls on your shoulder and she takes another drink.
“I think you’re giving all of us way too much credit,” You finally tell her, trying to make her see she wasn’t much different from the rest of you. She was just as capable. “You’re putting us on a pedestal.”
She scoffs at that. “Uh, yeah, obviously. Have you met you guys?”
“Hey, I’m serious,” You tilt your head to look at her for a second. “You better hope Shen doesn’t hear you ever say that because that comment will go to his head.”
You successfully pull a laugh out of her and she feels better enough to lift her head again. “Seriously, though. I promise the only real difference between us and day shift is that we’re sleep deprived enough to know how to have fun. You, Dr. J, are practically built to fit right in.”
She rolls her eyes at your comment but then looks at you for real. “Promise?”
You only smile at her and nod towards the door. “Go find out.”
She regains her confidence easily after that. She jumps on cases left and right, slotting in beside Crus perfectly. When he asks her questions mid procedure she answers them without hesitation. He looks up, finds you across the room, and smiles, silently telling you she’s doing incredible.
Jack pulls her along with him on a few cases before she begs him to let her tag along with Ellis instead, who gets a more interesting case. He gives her a lecture about skipping around and picking patients before he sighs and lets her go anyway.
It’s only a surprise to her when she finds out she thrives here with all of you.
****
Jack was hiding.
He feels comfortable doing so. He has Ellis, Javadi, and Crus running the floor. He could afford to take advantage of the rare moment of downtime and sneak away for ten minutes. And if he pulled you along with him then that was his business.
He was doing it for you, that’s what he was telling himself. You had a long shift ahead of you and the least you deserved was to take advantage of the brief moment of respite for some peace and quiet.
Really he was selfish. He felt like he might genuinely spontaneously combust if he didn’t get a moment alone with you and fast. So maybe he was a little bit clingy.
In his defense though, you were addicting. The ease with which you moved together, completely in sync with one another. The smile you flashed him across the ED when you were split up. The way you just understood him.
And how you’d let him be a little bit clingy when he just needed a moment to ground himself. When he needed to come back down to earth and remember he was only human. To remember he lived and breathed for you. You’d become his lifeline and his vice wrapped in one perfect little package.
And he liked the day shift residents, he really did. They might not have been his officially but he’d always jump at the chance to teach them everything he wished he’d known when he was in their place.
Everything except this. How one day they’d find someone like you who took all the weight off their shoulders and bear it alongside them so it wouldn’t drown them.
Unfortunately it seemed like they’d already caught on.
Mel, Santos, and Javadi all knew. Mohan definitely knew which is how he’d gotten himself here in the first place. They’d flocked to you for a reason, one that was so much like his own. And that was fine.
He didn’t own you. He didn’t have exclusivity of the way you made everything bearable.
He was, however, madly and deeply in love with you. Beyond his ability to describe. And he did have a right to be clingy when he wanted to be. Especially when it felt like he'd barely gotten any time alone with you recently despite the fact that you woke up and fell asleep next to each other every single night.
Jack was already making a mental note to tell Shen just how much he appreciated him when he came back.
Currently the two of you are practically on top of each other on the tiny twin bed that sits in the center of the on-call room. Any other day you would’ve argued with Jack. You’d have given him that sly little smile and pulled him into the stairwell instead with a teasing look in your eyes.
But right now you were tired and Jack knew you better than anyone. He could see the exhaustion settling so deep into your bones that not even your second coffee of the night would be able to fix it. And he knew you’d never let anyone else see it. He knew you’d let them need you until the moment you walked through the door of your home with him and shut the world away.
So you let him pull you out of the chaos before it can run you ragged. Instead, you eagerly curl into his side, half on his lap, as you listen to him talk.
Attempt to listen, anyway. You don’t quite know what he’s saying. The sound of his voice and the warmth coming from his body against yours is putting you in a trance, the extra long shift you’re currently in the middle of already catching up to you.
You can feel your eyes getting heavy with sleep and the way he’s running one of his hands through your hair is definitely not helping either.
Then the door bursts open and all remnants of sleep leave you completely. Jack glares on instinct and then relaxes when he sees Javadi. He could excuse it this one time.
She does not hesitate before sinking down into the spinny chair that sits in the corner of the room beside a small coffee table.
“Dr. Abbot, I have this note for you.” Is all she says to announce herself, leaning forward to pass you the note to pass to him. She isn’t phased by this at all.
You, her, and Samira had gone to the art museum a few weeks ago. She’d gotten to yours and Jack’s place at around 9 and he’d answered the door in pajama bottoms and an old army shirt. Nothing could phase her after witnessing firsthand the easy domesticity oozing out of the two of you in the time you guys waited for Samira to let you know she was there.
Although she had entered with one eye screwed shut after Ellis told her she was playing a dangerous game bursting into a room where you and Jack were left together unsupervised. Just in case.
“A note?” Jack’s eyes narrow at her as he unfolds the paper. His eyes scan the piece of paper quickly and then he scoffs before handing it back to you. “Did you really waste an entire prescription sheet to scribble that down?”
You look at it and sure enough she had. Patient Name: Victoria Javadi. Instructions: Nap Time. Dosage: 20 Minutes. Repeat as needed until symptoms of sleepiness improve. Signed: @ doc.j on all socials
Complete with a heart at the end
“Yes!” Javadi flops backwards on the chair and she kicks off the ground, doing a full spin until she’s looking at the two again. “I’m exhausted. I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the law.”
“Oh really,” Jack raises a brow at her and pulls you closer to his side. “What law is that?”
“Don’t I get, like, a union mandated naptime,” She drops her head back and she’s looking at the two of you upside down now. “I’m pretty sure that’s a thing and you’re just not remembering.”
“Or you’re just being dramatic.”
“That’s rude. I’m the least dramatic person here, actually.” She spins again as she says it.
You feel Jack sigh against you. You look up at him from where your head is resting on his arm and he waits until Javadi does a third spin in the chair to kiss you. Soft and quick and a promise that he’s going to get you at least a few minutes to just sit down and breathe no matter how much you insist you don’t need it. He gently maneuvers out from under you and stretches as he stands up.
“Come on, kid,” He moves around the other side of the bed and stops Javadi’s chair mid spin. “Let’s go find you a patient.”
“But that’s the opposite of sleep.”
“Yeah but it’ll keep you awake and alert more than sleep will.” They walk out of the on-call room, Jack flashing you a wink before he closes the door softly.
You’ve only just laid back on the bed again when a soft knock sounds at the door and you sit up again.
“Hey, Sweets,” Crus looks apologetic when he opens the door all the way. “Can I get your help with a patient? We got swamped out of nowhere, everyone else is busy.”
“Only cause I like you,” You smile at him and push the exhaustion to the back of your mind. That wasn’t important anymore. “Don’t tell anyone I play favorites though, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He steps back and lets you through the door first before he starts leading you towards the North wing. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
****
It’s exactly 7:43 AM when Eileen Shamsi steps out of the elevator. She’s wearing her perfectly pristine white lab coat and her face is contorted in barely controlled disgust at the sight of the already packed and busy ER.
Maybe it was your lack of sleep the last few days. Maybe it was the fact that you were nearing hour 13 of a 17 hour shift. Maybe it had just been brewing since Victoria Javadi had first confided in you, telling you all the fears and anxieties that consumed her because of her mother.
You drop the conversation you’re having with Ellis the moment you see her and beeline to Dr. Shamsi herself. Ellis follows, unsure whether she’ll have to hold you back or not.
You step right in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. “Can I help you?”
Jack hears the tone in your voice from across the room. His head whips around to find you and he knows what’s about to happen. He’d known from the moment you told him what had been wrong with Javadi at the start of her shift.
When Javadi steps out of the room they’d been in he quickly spins her around so she can’t see the scene. He ushers her to the locker room, telling her she did good and she was good to go whenever she was ready.
“I’m looking for my daughter.” Dr. Shamsi barely spares you a glance, looking instead towards Ellis.
You side step to bring her attention back to you. “Is someone dying?”
She looks taken aback at the question and makes a face when she looks back at you. “Why I am here is none of your concern.”
“I’ll take that as a no then,” You give a small shrug and shake your head. “She’s a little busy right now. She saved a critical patient's life earlier and is running through her proposed treatment plan with Dr. Abbot and Dr. McCay, who will be taking over for her. She’s had a beautifully eventful night.”
“Well I need to see her.”
“And what I need is a nice, cold Raspberry Truffle Iced Macchiato with salted caramel cold foam and a white chocolate drizzle to get me through the rest of my day but we don’t always get what we want do we?”
You succeed in distracting her long enough for Jack to tell Victoria to get some sleep before she comes back later that night. She’s perfectly unaware of what’s going on as she walks out the door.
“You are more than welcome to check every single room in the emergency department if you’d like to find her. Although we’re in the middle of finishing rounds so you might have a lot of patients asking a lot of questions.”
Eileen Shamsi actually scoffs at you. Ellis’ eyes go wide and she’s seen you get angry enough times, usually at the more unruly patients, to know your patience has run out. There’s no predicting what you’ll say now. “This is insubordination.”
You suck a breath in from between your teeth and shrug. You take a step closer to her. She takes a step back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, doc. I don’t answer to you.” You stand your ground, not an ounce of hesitation in you.
She crosses her arms in front of her, “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Your head tips to the side and a smile flashes on your face. “See, I don’t like this little helicopter parent thing you try to play at. It undermines everything Victoria has learned and on top of that, every time you come down here with another pointless lecture it’s distracting to the doctors in my ED. And unlike those of you up in your cozy little offices on the top floor waiting for someone to come to you, we have real jobs to do.”
You can see the eavesdropping from everyone around you. You feel the tension in the air, thick enough to be sliced through with a dull scalpel. The smile never leaves your face.
Finally she scoffs again, making an attempt at staring you down. It doesn’t work. “I didn’t realize they gave the nurses free reign to act however they want down here.”
You don’t flinch at the accusation.
“They do when they’re capable. And I’m one of the best they’ve got,” You can see Jack now, having moved to your line of sight so he could get a better view. He’s not even making an effort to hide the smirk on his face. “If you excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
“You’re insane,” Ellis whispers as she follows you, an amused laugh escaping her.
You only shrug, smiling back at her. “I said what I needed to.”
Jack reaches for you the moment you’re close enough to. One arm wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer to him. He doesn’t let you go this time. Instead he just whispers to you as you walk together, “You’re trouble, you know that?”
You happily settle into him, “Was that too much?”
“I actually don’t think you went hard enough,” He stops as you guys near a slightly calmer part of the ED. “But I do think you might need that third coffee.”
You beam at him when he says those words. “I really love you, you know that?”
He hums a bit as he stares you down, painfully aware of the people moving around you. “You love my car. And the fact that it drives to that cafe you like.”
He knows you so well, “That too.”
He can’t stay on shift, he knows that. But maybe he can linger long enough to distract you just a little bit. “You want some breakfast?”
There’s a new found light in your eyes at the prospect of something other than vending machine snacks. “I might actually propose to you if you bring me back some of those little quiches. And a croissant.”
“Deal.”
5. Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato
There were a few things Baran Al-Hashimi had learned for certain in the short time she’d been at the PTMC.
One, everyone here was severely overworked. It wasn’t anything new, she’d known exactly what she was getting herself into.
Two, the nurses were most definitely the backbone of the emergency department. It’d only taken a couple hours for her to trust every single one of them implicitly.
And three, no one would ever, ever hear Dr. Abbot ask for help at work. He was very good at helping others, incredible really. There was even a brief moment where she’d wondered why he wasn’t chief of the department. Until she realized he hated unnecessary responsibility as much as he loved spontaneous teaching moments. He didn’t like to think himself above others, hated it actually. And so, he’d never ask for backup. Even when he needed it.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m going to give you an extra resident,” She simply gives him a calm smile. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she tips her head to the side, wordlessly daring him to argue with her. “Short term, for now. We’ll see how it goes at the end of this trial period and then reassess."
Jack’s entire face screws into offense. Mateo and Shen watch eagerly, lingering on the other side of the nurses station for much longer than they have to in an attempt to eavesdrop.
“No thanks,” Jack picks up a tablet and starts unlocking it. He’s not searching for anything in particular, he just wants an excuse to end this conversation. “We’re good. We’ve got a routine. And I don’t underestimate my doctors.”
“I’m not underestimating any of you,” Al-Hashimi shakes her head slowly, refusing to let him shut her down. “On the contrary. I think you have a lot to teach them.”
“And I will. When I happen to be here during the day,” He starts walking away from her. “Or when they get the misfortune of being stuck with me on nights every now and then.”
“Dr. Abbot,” She says it in a way that stops him in his tracks, in a way that demands his attention. He slowly turns around to face her again and she lets out a gentle sigh. “I don’t know if you know this but I’ve already seen a remarkable difference in how Doctors Santos and Javadi approach their practices and they didn’t even spend that long with you. They grew in just those few hours.”
“Of course they did,” Jack’s eyes flicker across the room, spotting both of them still maneuvering their way between patients. Santos has called dibs on you already, pulling you in to help her put a cast on her patient. Shen is with Javadi now, running through possible diagnoses with her. Ellis, Crus, and Nazely are following the rest of the residents, walking themselves through the remaining handoffs. “Wasn’t just cause of me though.”
“My point exactly.” Al-Hashimi smiles again, successfully running him in a mental circle and leading him to the same point she was trying to make all along. “You all bring something very valuable to this department.”
Jack can’t argue there. He finally sighs and leans back against the central counter, knowing that once Al-Hashimi made up her mind there was no changing it. “Who are you giving me?”
-Day Three-
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Shen’s statement pulls you out of the conversation you’re having with Mateo while putting in orders for patients. He slides in between the two of you in an attempt to blend in. As if he isn’t a good several inches taller than you both and wearing different colored scrubs.
“What are you talking about?” You look away from your lab results that had just come in and turn to look at him.
“Whitaker,” He nods his head to the side, subtly motioning to where Whitaker was clutching a tablet in his hands tightly while running something past Jack. “I don’t think he likes me. I think he might actually hate me.”
Mateo’s laugh cuts through the otherwise soft buzz that filled the ED. He laughs more when Shen looks at him offended, “You’re insane.”
“It’s true!” Shen looks between the two of you and crosses his arms. “He’s been here for three days and I think we’ve had maybe a single conversation so far. And you’d think I was torturing it out of him.”
“It’s probably not as bad as you think.” You offer and he shakes his head.
“Sweets, the kid runs away from me every time he asks me a question. He always looks like he wants to say something and then his eyes do that big sad thing and he runs away. He isn’t like that with you guys.”
“Shen. John. Sweetheart,” You’re trying your hardest not to also laugh at the idea of what he’s saying. Instead you offer him a smile and shake your head, “I don’t think Dennis could hate anyone if he tried.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. “Well what’s his deal then, huh?”
You turn to look at him again and this time the conversation Jack is having with him looks different. You recognize it. You’ve seen him do it plenty of times over the last few weeks. He’s good at it, no matter how much he pretends he isn’t. He’s standing a little closer to Whitaker now and his arms have uncrossed, opting instead to stick his hands in his pockets.
He leans a little closer and tips his head, fighting to get Whitaker to actually look at him and not fold himself away. When he finally does he takes it as a win and nods. He puts a hand on Whitaker’s shoulder and gives a gentle shake, finally satisfied when he returns the smile and moves to go back to his patient.
Whitaker looks over before he walks back into the room and meets your eye. He waves at you easily and then notices Mateo and Shen. He gives them both a tense smile and that’s when you crack the code like it’s nothing.
“He’s just nervous,” You tell them, lowering your voice a little bit. “He’s been on day shift since he started with the same handful of people and never anyone else. We’re gonna take some getting used to, we’re kind of a lot.”
The logic doesn’t do much to ease Shen. “Well he’s fine with you and Jack.”
“Okay well, I was halfway through my post grad residency when he started as a med student and we bonded over being new to all of this.”
You feel it then. An arm wraps around your waist and you’d know Jack anywhere. He does the same thing he always does when he just needs you near for a few seconds. He shifts you over a little bit and lets you go, not technically touching you but practically occupying the same little bubble of space you are. He hovers close by, enough so that he could reach over and hold your hand in his without stretching if he really wanted to.
“And what about him?” Shen crosses his arms when he nods towards Jack. “I’m more easily approachable than he is, aren’t I?”
Jack looks between the three of you and then takes a step closer to you, trying to figure out if maybe he could piece together the conversation just from standing near you. “What are you talking about, I’m a ray of sunshine.”
Mateo laughs again and shakes his head, “That’s almost funnier than Whitaker hating him.”
“Whitaker? Hate?” That catches Jack off guard. “I don’t think that kid even knows what that word means.”
“I hate when you guys agree on something.” Shen is about to give up and settle for a lifetime of not knowing why Dennis Whitaker runs away from him.
But then Jack sidesteps to stop him from walking away and says, “Go invite him to breakfast with us.”
Shen frowns and looks around the ED, checking to see if he was missing something. Maybe there was a fire he hadn’t seen yet. “We’re not going to breakfast?”
It wasn’t something unusual, necessarily. Breakfast trips were just usually reserved for the mornings after a long shift. Ones where none of you got the chance to breathe, let alone stop and have a real conversation. It helped bring you all back down to earth, to make everything feel real and in control again. This felt equally important in this moment.
“We are now,” Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “On me. Now go ask him to go with us and ask him what he likes. And make sure you sit next to him when we get there.”
Shen thinks about it for a second and seems to decide that this is a plan that’ll definitely work. He walks away and you watch as he strategically hovers outside the door until Whitaker walks out. You, Jack, and Mateo watch the conversation play out until Whitaker smiles, nods, and walks away from Shen. And at a perfectly normal pace. Shen, meanwhile, looks ecstatic when he turns and gives you guys a double thumbs up.
“Well would you look at that,” Mateo reaches for his badge as he steps back towards one of the computers, continuing with what he’d been doing before. “Mom and dad are helping the kids play nice.”
“Forgive me for wanting my ED to run smoothly.” Jack rolls his eyes at the statement but moves closer to you anyway. There’s one of those comments again. The ones that linger in his brain for a lot longer than necessary.
So maybe this whole dynamic that you all had going on was a little odd. But it was also functional. It made the long days and longer nights easier. And maybe that was enough to excuse it.
-Day Eight-
“I have done you a great disservice. I betrayed you.” You announce yourself as you march right up to Dennis. He glances at you in between shoving his things in his locker.
“For sure, yeah,” He nods, shuts the locker door, and looks at you, leaning against the cold metal on one shoulder. “What did you do, again?”
You don’t say anything. You simply hold out a drink to him. He looks at the cup, large and dripping condensation on your hands. He thinks vaguely of the cup he’d seen already half drunk on the desk out in central.
Your name had been written in bubble letters with a heart after it. Shen had dutifully informed him that he could ask for anything he wanted from the cafe down the street, the baristas there loved you and Jack. It was the reason the two of you were always the ones sent on coffee runs now, they never minded the obscene amount of items you guys would order. The massive tip Jack always left them definitely helped.
He can see his own name scrawled on the plastic of the one you’re handing him with a smiley face after it along with ‘enjoy!!’.
“I see,” Dennis takes the cup from you and eyes it before looking up at you. “I’m being hazed.”
You roll your eyes and hand him the straw. “You’re being a drama queen, I’d hardly call a fun drink hazing.”
He sticks the straw through the lid and the two of you walk out of the locker room. “It is when you have psychic powers and you’re guessing whether or not I'll like it.”
“I haven’t been wrong yet,” The buzz of the ED floods the space around you. “Just try it. You’ll like it, I swear.”
“Honey, you’ll scare him if you keep it up,” Jack doesn’t even look up from where he’s typing something on one of the computers.
You grin as you spot him. As if you hadn’t just left his side minutes ago. You wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind and kiss the top of his head, pausing to brush a slightly too long curl back into its place.
Your eyes narrow again as you look at Dennis over the top of Jack’s head. “Well it’s not my fault Whitaker is afraid of trying new things.”
“Now who’s being dramatic,” He swirls the straw in his drink and wonders if you’ll kill him if he were to lie and tell you he doesn’t like coffee all that much. He was never really good at accepting gifts. “What is it?”
“I’ll tell you after you try it.”
So he finally does. He can feel you staring at him. He can also feel Jack staring, apparently deciding that whatever important thing he’d been doing wasn’t as interesting as this. And suddenly he understands what everyone’s been talking about.
He’s experiencing first hand the care you put into unraveling all the small little bits of information that make people up. The ability you have to look at someone, see them for who they are, and act accordingly. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the quiet of your home or the emergency department or picking out a drink you think they’ll like. You make them feel seen either way.
You’d joked about it but he’d seen the brief concern in your eyes when you’d walked up to him and held out the drink, afraid you’d hurt him somehow when you’d accidentally forgotten to read him in this way that was uniquely yours. The same way he’d seen right through Jack when he insisted someone new had to cover Shen’s shifts a while back.
Something warm settles inside him at the fact that you’d pin pointed him so accurately it was truly a little insane. Just like you had everyone else. He wasn’t used to being perceived in this way.
“It’s okay.” He takes another sip. A longer one.
You can see him smile around the straw and you match the look, knowing you’re right again. Jack goes back to actually working, thoroughly amused. “It’s a Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato.”
“Why’d you pick it?” He needs to know what you see in him. What you’re perceiving. Why you’re so right about every single one of them.
“A magician never reveals their secrets,” You kiss the top of Jack’s head again and he reaches up to silently squeeze your hand in acknowledgement. Dennis looks away, afraid he’s intruding on the soft moment. Then you let Jack go and instead reach out to grab him, pulling him away from the computers. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Let’s go find a job to do.”
-Day Sixteen-
“You know this is weird right?” Trinity spins in her chair to look at Whitaker. She’d taken a brief pause in her last chart to watch him walk through the ambulance bay doors, settled comfortably on the other side of Jack as the three of you walked in together.
“What are you talking about?” Dennis frowns, not quite following.
It’d become part of the routine. Him and Trinity lived on your way into the hospital. That was it. It just made sense for him to carpool with you and Jack. Save gas in this economy or whatever. It was the same reason Samira usually drove Trinity home and dropped Javadi off wherever she was due to avoid her mom that day.
“You’re third wheeling our attending and his girlfriend,” She crosses her arms in front of her and tries not to laugh at the way his whole face scrunches up in distaste at the wording.
“Well when you put it like that it sounds bad.”
“No it’s not bad,” One corner of Trinity’s mouth quirks up and she shrugs. “They just saw you from across the pitt and liked your vibe.”
“Okay,” He pushes himself off the side of the table he’d been leaning on. “We’re done.”
“They just like you that’s all,” Trinity sits up in her chair and does laugh a little bit that time. “Don’t let the patients catch on though. I heard someone wondering if they’d take a third. You might have to fight people off.”
“You are insufferable sometimes,” Dennis knows his face is going red and it only makes Trinity look even more smug.
“Don’t be mean to her,” Right on cue. Your voice cuts through the laughing and Trinity very quickly puts an innocent pout on her face when you join them. You wrap an arm around her shoulders and rest your head on top of hers.
Trinity is wearing a shit eating as she reaches up and hugs you back. “Yeah, don’t be mean to me.”
Dennis has to bite his tongue to actively hold back his defense. There was no way you could find out what they’d been talking about.
“Hey,” You look at him as you lift your head, still not letting go of Trinity. “Do you wanna go to the farmers market with me after shift? It’s almost Shen’s one year anniversary of being an attending and one of the booths sells this bourbon infused honey he really likes to put in his coffee. He and Jack have a meeting with Al-Hashimi in the morning and if we go fast we can be back before they’re done.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Dennis agrees immediately and you smile, finally letting go of Trinity.
“Perfect, we’ll sneak out right after rounds?”
“I’ll meet you outside.” The second you’ve turned around and walked away he points an accusing finger at Trinity, who looks incredibly amused. “Don’t say a word.”
She holds back a laugh, “I’m not gonna.”
“Yes you are, I can feel it.”
She tries, she really does, but it comes out anyway. “Should I expect you to move out and into their guest room some time soon?”
“Goodbye, Trin.”
“So is that a yes?”
And then, as if the universe is out to get him, Abbot calls his name from the ambulance bay doors without even really knowing where he is. He just says it instinctively.
“Whitaker,” He looks around until he finds him and then nods, beckoning him over. “Come jump on this trauma with me.”
He doesn’t even dare looking back at Trinity again. He does, however, hear her burst out laughing as he walks away.
-Day Twenty Three-
Nazely hadn’t been at the PTMC for very long but she was starting to think that maybe she was lied too. Part of her was convinced that Sweets might actually be your real name. She’d rarely heard you called otherwise by anyone.
“You’re the best, Sweets.” When you hand Mateo his drink.
“Sweets, can I steal you for a sec?” When Shen needs help out in triage.
“Abbot, when are you gonna let me steal Sweets again? You can’t hog her forever.” When Walsh lingers in the ER after bringing a patient back down from surgery.
So, naturally, she uses the name for you too. Just like she uses everyone else’s name.
“Hi, Sweets,” She grins at you when she sees you walk in. On one side of you, “Dennis,” and on the other side, “Jack.”
She really doesn’t think twice about it.
Jack, however, is jump scared. He wasn’t used to hearing his name come from many people at work. You used it, obviously. Shen also did, he’d weaseled his way into becoming probably one of his closest friends. Every now and then someone else would say it, usually when the line bled from professionalism into exhaustion after long hours.
Hearing it said so casually was…odd. “Was that weird?”
“Was what weird?” You ask, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the slightest.
“My name.” Jack turns to Whitaker next, brows furrowed in complete confusion.
“I call you that?” Whitaker shrugs as the three of you stop at central, waiting for you to drop off whatever you need to leave behind the desk. “Not here but still.”
“Yeah but that’s different,” Jack shakes his head as if that should be obvious. “I know where you live. I’m supposed to be intimidating. I’m intimidating, right?”
He’s looking at you again and you nod quickly, flashing him a smile, “You’re terrifying.”
Jack knows you’re lying. He turns to Whitaker again. “I’m scary.”
Whitaker looks at you and you give him a small nod. Play along. “Definitely.”
Except Whitaker then watches Jack for a second. He’s still holding his matcha, a salted maple one today, and leaning against the desk beside you. He watches as Jack pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and you smile at him. Then, wordlessly, he moves behind you. He puts his drink down and instead gathers your hair back. He pulls a hair tie off his own wrist, one of the extras he always has on him, and ties it back for you.
Whitaker looks down quickly, as if he’s intruding on something he isn’t supposed to be again, and smiles. And thinks he could get used to this. Nights. The pointless conversations and gentle moments and calling each other by first names. As much as he loves the day shift, this is something that makes him feel comfortable. Like he belongs.
Maybe that’s why he does it.
“I disagree.”
It’s well into the night now and the trauma room they’re in goes quiet. Whitaker is suddenly much too aware of every single person in there. Nazely’s eyes go wide from beside him. Mateo looks back and forth between him and Jack. Even Crus pauses for a second to see how this is going to play out.
Jack pauses, halfway through pulling off his gloves already. “I’m sorry?”
“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way,” Whitaker takes a step forward. He doesn’t back down.
He runs through everything they know. Their patient, their injuries, medical history, prescriptions, what the EMT’s had found out on scene. And he can see why Jack makes the conclusion he does and why everyone else agrees. It was textbook.
But he puts the logical assumptions they usually make aside, looks at it from the patients point of view instead. And it leads him somewhere else.
“I know it might not be necessary but I think we should do it just in case,” Whitaker tries his hardest not to shrink under the way Jack is looking at him. “If I'm wrong then that’s fine. But if I’m right it’s better we catch it earlier.”
It’s quiet for another second. And then the nitrile gloves snap as Jack finishes pulling them off and he nods. “Alright. Order the labs. Central 9 is open last I heard, let’s get him moved in there,” And then to Whitaker. “He’s yours now. Keep me updated.”
It's only thirty minutes later when the lab work comes back.
Whitaker is looking at it on the screen and doesn’t even notice Jack standing right behind him, looking at the results over his shoulder until he says, “You were right.”
Whitaker jumps and quickly backs up against the standing desk he’s at. “Maybe a little warning next time?”
Jack smirks and shrugs, “My ED, we’ll see.” He looks back at the lab results and doesn’t look back at him when he says, “You did good, kid. It’s about time you argued with me about something.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Whitaker quickly adds, realizing all of a sudden that this is his attending and they are at work. There was supposed to be a clear dynamic. “I just -”
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Jack cuts him off before he can start. “Disagreeing with me is practically a right of passage here, ask anyone. You’re a good doctor, stop pretending you aren’t just because you don’t feel okay pushing back sometimes. You’re one of us now, we can take it.”
Jack doesn’t say anything else. He claps him on the shoulder before walking to wherever he was off to next.
The words stick with him. You’re one of us now.
He thinks of them the entire rest of his shift. Then the entire way home, as you’re recounting a story from triage they’d missed earlier that night from the front seat. Again when you and Jack pick him up again and when he clocks in for the next night's shift he feels lighter on his feet. Like maybe, finally, he’s settled. He likes it here, he decides. Maybe the night shift wasn’t as bad as people assumed it was.
+1. Toasted Coconut Cold Brew, extra sugar
Jack could admit when he was wrong. Maybe Al-Hashimi had been on to something. Honestly, he was sure that he could get used to this.
His team was good. He knew they were. He had more confidence in them than anyone else in the ED. Still, that didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate the extra coverage when they were given it. And having Whitaker there consistently over the last month had been a godsend.
Tonight was his last shift on nights and he knows they’re all wondering the same thing. What would they have to do to get him switched permanently. Whitaker doesn’t seem to mind the idea. They don’t know that he and Javadi are in the process of duking it out to get Al-Hashimi to let one of them switch permanently.
You know it was a rough morning. Not only because Donnie had been keeping you updated on everything you were missing in the nurses group chat but also because Dana is sitting still, something she never does. She’s hovering at central when you walk in with Whitaker and Jack and staring off into space for a moment. A clear sign it’d been a long day.
You silently hand her a well needed dose of caffeine the moment you see her, a toasted coconut cold brew with extra extra sugar. She looks at you and you can hear what she wants to say without her having to say it. You’re a life saver, kid.
She settles into her spot for a second with a soft sigh. You don’t notice when she turns to eavesdropping on the conversation you’re having with Whitaker and watches out of the corner of her eye.
Not a single one of them can deny the effect you seem to have on everyone, the residents especially. They can all see it clearly.
The ease in Mel’s shoulders when she came back in, more willing to assert herself. The way Santos took a second to listen now, looking at things past her first instinct. The confidence Javadi carried with her, not holding herself back anymore.
And now Whitaker. An easy smile on his face and for the first time in the entire time he’d been at the PTMC he took up space and stopped making himself easy to handle. He argued and stood firm in what he thought and even bickered sometimes. Over what he thought was the right course of action and for fun. Loudly. For all Dana knew you night shift dwellers could’ve replaced her mousy little resident with a clone of himself and she just wasn’t made aware.
You’ve maneuvered your way behind the counter and Jack stands close at your side, taking advantage of the fact that it’s not 7:00 PM yet. It’s 6:58 and he has no plans to leave your side until he absolutely has to.
He was not being clingy that time. He was just tired. That was definitely all. The two of you had been up a lot longer than you should’ve been after the night before for various reasons. This wasn’t even that bad compared to how he could be. He’s got one arm on the counter, leaning on it while his body is faced towards you.
Whitaker is leaning towards you over the other side of the counter, practically invading the other half of your personal space and Dana thinks it’s crazy that you don’t feel smothered by them. They’re both stuck to you like glue. She decides that is none of her business.
She watches as night shift starts trickling in. Whitaker nods at Shen in greeting as he walks past, flashing a grin at him while still deep in conversation with you. Then he gives both Mateo and Crus a fist bump when they come in. A few minutes later Ellis follows and she pats him on the shoulder and he smiles back at her and they do a handshake only they seem to know. Dana raises a brow at that one and takes a sip of her coffee.
He doesn’t even look like he’s questioning every word he says as he talks to Jack. Jack Abbot. His attending. He even goes as far as to joke with him the way he only ever has with Santos in moments they think no one is watching.
And Dana is so sure of the choice she’s already made.
“It’s a gift,” You roll your eyes at Whitaker and he shakes his head, looking away so you don’t see the grin he holds back. “It doesn’t count as one if you pay me back for it.”
He shakes his head and stirs the straw in his drink. “There’s literally no reason for you to get me a gift though.”
“Oh, I can't get my friend something nice for making it through the last four weeks?”
“Don’t believe her,” Jack sets one hand on your hip as he leans in closer to look over you so he can see Whitaker past you. His voice lowers like he’s telling him a secret, like you aren’t right there between them. “It’s a bribe to try to get you to stay on nights.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell him,” You turn your head and shake your head at him and he only smiles at you, holding back every instinct of his that’s begging to kiss you in the middle of the ED. “Besides, it was his idea.”
“It was not.” Jack scoffs at your accusation. One that’s absolutely correct.
“Liar.”
“I refuse to participate in this,” Whitaker shakes his head and lets out a smile that time. There was something about being on nights that made him feel a sense of camaraderie with everyone that he hadn’t felt before. He hadn’t just worked with new people, he’d made friends. And maybe part of why he felt so comfortable was this exact reason. The way you dragged him into these things so easily. It made him feel included. He was gonna miss it on days. “Not part of my job description anymore.”
“Oh come on,” You give him a pout and Jack rolls his eyes at your antics. “You’re gonna miss us, admit it.”
“Ellis, Crus, and Shen for sure. Abbot a little bit. Definitely Lena and Mateo,” He tips his head to the side and then flashes you a look that borders on a smirk and shrugs. “I think that’s it.”
“You’re so mean,” You’re actively fighting the smile from appearing. “You’re uninvited to your goodbye breakfast in the morning.”
“We’ll see where you stand on that an hour from now.” He only nods, finally standing up straight and taking a sip of his drink to prove his point. The one you’d bought for him.
He moves to walk away but not before holding his hand out for your second coffee. You hand it to him easily and he takes it along with his drink you’d brought him, heading towards the break room to put them both in the fridge. Whitaker, unlike most of you, had a little bit of self control and didn’t usually chug his way through his drink.
“Seriously,” You turn to face Jack once he’s gone. “Can we keep him? Do you think they’ll let us?”
Jack indulges you. He always does.
“I don’t know, he’s pretty valuable,” His eyes scan your face, bouncing back and forth until they land on your lips, still pouting at him. He debates how badly both Dana and Lena will yell at him if he kisses you right here with patients all around. “We might have to fight for him.”
There’s a ding on your phone before you can answer. When you pull it out to glance at it quickly in case it’s something important you immediately forget anything you’d been about to say.
Dennis Whitaker paid you $7 - bc i’ll miss u the most (real)
“Dennis Whitaker!” You shout in the middle of the ED and you turn around to go hunt him down.
Dana stops you. His only saving grace.
“Not so fast, kid,” Dana reaches out for you and grabs your arm gently before you can walk past her. She looks at you for a second and then notices the way Jack is listening closely, having zeroed in very quickly on this interaction. She looks at him then and puts on a mask of distaste. “Don’t you have patients to go see?”
He checks his watch. 7:00 PM on the dot. “Not yet, technically. Board hasn’t changed.”
“So help me god I will -”
“Alright, alright. Message received,” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m going.”
Jack walks away and strategically hovers in Dana’s blindspot, making it a point to eavesdrop out of curiosity.
Dana just watches you for a second. She looks you up and down. She thinks of you when you first came into the PTMC. Competent and determined to do the most good you could. You’d been eager and loud and asked questions she hadn’t been able to predict, ones other nurses who had come and gone wouldn’t have even thought of. She loved you immediately. And now here you are. On your own and somehow, someway having solidified yourself as an absolutely integral part of the night shift ecosystem that Jack Abbot had crafted carefully over the years.
And he’d apparently decided that had to carry over in his own home. She certainly had her opinions on how quickly he’d pulled you in but if the constantly present lovey-dovey look on your face was any indication then the feeling was absolutely mutual.
You look strangely alive with him and that was really all that mattered. It made her smile as much as she pretended it didn’t.
Finally she asks you, “How you likin’ nights so far?”
Your eyes narrow at her and she laughs. You could see through her as well as she could you. “Is there a reason you’re asking now and not a few months ago?”
She shrugs, “Just wonderin’.”
You don’t believe her for a second but you think about it anyway. You think about the last few months and how it had turned completely upside down from how you’d first envisioned it. You think about how it had been on days. And then you answer without hesitation. “I really love it actually. More than I thought I would.”
“Really,” Dana raises a brow at you and crosses her arms. “How much of it is cause of Romeo over there?”
She nods towards where she knows Jack is hovering, doing him the kindness of pretending she doesn’t notice.
“Please, I’d tell you if any of it was and when have I ever lied to you,” You laugh a little at the look she gives you, a mom look if you ever saw one. Your face softens then and she straightens, silently telling you she was there for whatever you were about to confide in her for. “I am serious, though.”
“Yeah?”
You nod and you don’t hesitate to tell her the truth.
“It’s a lot harder than days, definitely. I mean, neither of them are easy, obviously. But there’s more routine with days, you can almost prepare yourself. You don’t get that with nights. All you can do is buckle up and hope for the best and I think I’ve gotten really good at that. Nights are when people are the most vulnerable and scared, when they aren’t afraid of hiding it anymore. They need someone who’s gonna take a little bit of whatever is being thrown at them off their shoulders and I’m good at that. If I can help even a little, then being a bit sleep deprived all the time isn’t really a bad thing.”
“I think you’re good at it too, kid,” Dana smiles at you, genuinely that time. Then she pauses for another second before asking, “You wanna switch back to days?”
You freeze, “What?”
Jack, who’d been about to walk away and mind his business, falters. Suddenly he’s hovering again.
“Temporarily,” Dana adds on quickly. “I have a six week cruise calling my name, gift from my sister-in-law. Gloria already approved you taking over for me while I'm gone.”
You laugh a little bit, filled with nothing but shock. “You’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be, Sweets?”
“Well,” You point behind her at where Princess and Perlah are standing. You’re so caught off guard by the question that you don’t even notice they’re only there because Jack had quickly recruited them to help hide him in the background behind them so he could move closer. “What about them?”
“Oh absolutely not.”
“Never in a million years.”
“See?” Dana shrugs easily as if that explains everything. “You’re my best bet, kid.”
“Well,” You struggle to find an argument. “Why me?”
Because she trusts you. “Cause you’ve done it before. And very well might I add.”
“Yeah, for like five hours,” You cross your arms in front of you and shuffle on your feet. “That hardly counts.”
“Does too, that’s almost half a shift. The place didn’t burn down did it?”
“That’s like the bare minimum.”
“Sweets,” She finally says as she sets one hand on the counter, the other still holding her drink. She leans forward towards you, lowering herself a bit so she’s eye level with you. “You got this. I know you can run this place the way I do. And so do they.”
She nods vaguely to her side, in the direction of the rest of the entirety of the ED. Princess gives you a thumbs up from behind her and Perlah nods enthusiastically.
“Please say yes,” Jesse shows up out of nowhere, hands squeezing your shoulders in greeting before he leans on the counter next to you. “She’s gonna make one of us do it if you say no.”
“Oh no,” You turn to him and give a mock frown. “Not more work.”
He rolls his eyes at you and then looks at Dana. “She takes after you.”
And it's true. She’d taught you everything she knew and you soaked up every bit of it.
You think for a moment again. You’d gotten used to nights incredibly quickly. It was your home. Where you thrived. But a part of you missed this exact thing sometimes though. The first people you knew here, the ones who’d taught you. The ones you kept close, carrying parts of them with you always. If they trusted you…
“Gloria really said yes already?”
“She took very little convincing.”
“And Lena?”
“I’ve never seen her sign off on something so fast.”
“Okay, that hurts a little bit.”
“She just knows how good you are too. You’re the only one we’re waiting for.”
You bite your bottom lip and drop your head back to look at the fluorescent lit ceiling. Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you weigh the choice to yourself. You sigh as you look at Dana again, “Six weeks?”
“That’s right.”
There’s another few seconds of suspense and you can feel all of them staring at you. And then finally, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Jack watches the way they cheer and then excitedly crowd around you from afar. And he’s happy for you, he really is. He’s proud of you and he’s absolutely going to tell you so as soon as you tell him later and he pretends to not already know. He’s also devastated. He already doesn’t know what they expect him to do with himself. How could he possibly survive the next six weeks if he didn’t have you by his side.
Whitaker walks past him in that exact moment, on his way to look at the board that has now officially changed, the names of everyone on the night shift taking place of the day shift. Jack grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back in a single quick move.
He stumbles back and Jack steadies him before he can fall.
“You don’t want to switch places do you?” The question escapes Jack on its own and Whitaker looks confused for only a second. “You can stay on nights and I’ll take your place on days.”
Silence. And then Whitaker notices you still standing with Dana. Perlah, Princess, and Jesse are all hovering now too. Then Donnie and Vivi join you and they know from the ecstatic looks on everyone else’s faces that you said yes. He connects the dots easily enough. He heard about it from Santos who heard from Princess a few days ago. He figured it was none of his business.
He stands upright again and tries really hard not to laugh a little bit. He returns the gesture and sets a hand on Jack’s shoulder and looks him in the eyes before shaking his head once.
“Not a chance. Good luck.”
note pt. 2: shen one hundred percent went to see sabrina carpenter i don't make the rules (javadi got the pink camaraderie shirt in case anyone was wondering)
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
Under the Apple Trees (Dennis Whitaker x f!reader)
Pairing: Dennis Whitaker x first love!reader
Warnings: Childhood friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, Dennis is a little pathetic oops, maybe a curse word or two, trauma incident, gsw to the abdomen, big dogs, misunderstandings, reader is kind of an idiot, but so is Dennis, random names I made up for Dennis' brothers (George and Tucker), use of em dashes oooooo spooky, slightly proofread, typos
Summary: Dennis Whitaker makes a decision that changes the course of your lives. Will he be able to fix the heartbreak he's caused? Or will misunderstandings cost him his chance with you? Can you forgive him for all he's done? Does the title "childhood best friend" and "first love" still mean something to you?
WC: 14.9k+
AN: I've had this sitting in my drafts for months and originally wanted this to be the first piece that I publish on Tumblr, but felt like it needed some more work. It's the longest fic I've ever written and did not want to break it into multiple parts like I had originally planned, so instead, I threw everything into one big fic! Hope y'all enjoy and as always, I am open to feedback and questions! Love y'all!
Here is a little mood board that I made for this story!
Dennis Whitaker was six years old when he met you for the first time, and for the rest of his life, he would swear that the moment felt less like meeting someone new and more like the world quietly shifting on its axis without warning, like it was rearranging every direction he thought he once knew (okay twilight). Your family’s truck had pulled up in a cloud of Nebraska dust that hung in the late afternoon sunlight, the engine rumbling as it idled beside the old fence line that separated your newly purchased land from the Whitaker farm. Dennis had been crouched in the dirt, pushing a broken toy tractor through a carved out trench, completely absorbed in his own world, until his older brother, George, whistled from the porch.
“Looks like we got neighbors,” he said.
Dennis didn’t care for neighbors. Neighbors meant adults talking too much and kids he didn’t know trying to touch his things. He only looked up because the passenger door opened and you hopped down, your sneakers landing in the dirt with an excited little bounce that made your braids swing. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t linger around your parents. Instead, you spotted him and started walking straight toward him like he was already someone important to you. Your confidence made him suspicious, but then the dog jumped out right behind you.
The creature unfolded itself from the truck like a moving mountain of fur, paws the size of dinner plates hitting the ground with soft thuds that seemed far too gentle for something so enormous. Dennis was sure at that age that something so large couldn’t possibly be just a dog. Its tongue lolled lazily and its tail swished once, twice, sending clouds of dust into the air.
He absolutely froze. His brain, small, dramatic, and six years old, concluded with certainty that he was about to die. Then the dog began trotting towards him, right behind you. He screamed, scrambled backwards, nearly tripped over his own feet, and bolted towards the fence. His hands gripped the rough wood as he tried to climb with all the coordination that a six year old could have. His sneakers slipped, his knees scraped, and he hauled himself halfway up before he dared to look back at you. The creature had stopped a few feet away, sitting down next to you calmly as if confused by the panic. You ran up to the fence, slightly out of breath, but laughing.
“Wait!” you called out. “He’s friendly!”
“He’s going to eat me!” Dennis clung to the fence.
“He would never!” you said, feeling offended on your dog’s behalf.
“This is Bear. He’s a Newfoundland, a guard dog!”
“Guard…? Guard from what?” His grip tightened.
You looked deep in thought at that question, then shrugged.
“Mostly from loneliness, I guess!” you beamed.
He didn’t quite understand that then, but eventually he would.
It took two weeks before Dennis let Bear come within arm’s reach, three before he dared to touch him, and a month before he would fall asleep on the dog’s massive stomach while you sat beside him, flipping through a book about animal anatomy that you were far too young to understand. You loved animals in a way that was almost reverent, and even at six, Dennis noticed the difference between how you looked at people and how you looked at creatures that couldn’t speak. Your voice softened and your hands moved carefully. Your entire presence shifted into something patient and gentle.
“I’m going to be a veterinarian one day,” you told him one afternoon, lying on your back in the grass while Bear’s tail thumped lazily nearby.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s a doctor for animals.”
“You’ll fix cows?” he rolled onto his side to face you.
“And horses.” “Even dogs?” “Especially dogs.” you reached over to scratch Bear’s ears.
“You’re gonna be famous.” Dennis nodded like it was the most logical plan in the world.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to be.” Your smile lit up your entire face.
He didn’t realize then that he would remember that exact expression years later, that it would replay in his mind in a quiet moment, that it would anchor him in ways he wouldn’t fully understand until much later.
Your house became his second home slowly, then all at once. Broken Bow had expectations–tight unspoken rules that wrapped around families like barbed wire disguised as tradition. Most people attended the same church and most lives revolved around it. Dennis’ family did, too, at least outwardly, though George would roll his eyes through every service and Tucker always seemed one step away from rebellion.
Your family did not take part in that part of farm life. Your parents were polite but distant, friendly but separate, and your land felt different. It was lighter, quieter, and free in a way that Dennis couldn’t name. He started to drift there after school, and at first, he told himself it was for Bear. Then, it was because you always had something interesting planned. Whether it was building a makeshift obstacle course for the goats, trying to teach chickens to follow commands, or patching up scraped up knees with surprising seriousness, eventually, he stopped making excuses. He simply showed up and you welcomed him every time like you’d been waiting.
“Where were you Dennis?” George would ask after dinner.
“With her.” Tucker would answer.
“Y’all are attached at the hip.” George smirked.
“We are not!!!” Dennis whined.
You sat beside him on the porch swing, looped your arm through his and grinned.
“We kind of are.”
His ears burned bright red.
You got along with his brothers effortlessly and it was something he both loved and secretly resented. George taught you how to drive the old tractor. Tucker taught you how to climb the big, old tree that stood in between y’all’s land. You laughed with them easily, slipping into the rhythm of their family like you’d always been there. He always hated how natural it looked. Not because he didn’t want you there, but because he didn’t like sharing. He didn't realize then that the feeling blooming quietly in his chest wasn’t just possessiveness. It was something deeper.
He realized he loved you when he was fifteen. It happened on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that shouldn’t have changed anything. A calf had caught itself on barbed wire, leaving a shallow cut along its side. You knelt down beside it, hands steady, carefully cleaning the wound with warm water while murmuring nonsense to soothe the little one.
Dennis leaned against the fence watching you. Sunlight feathered through your hair as your brows furrowed in concentration. You stuck your tongue out slightly as you worked. The entire world tilted when you looked up at him with a smile (okayyyy imprinting). His chest tightened so suddenly that it startled him. Something heavy and warm settled beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and terrifying.
He loved you. Not like a friend. Not like family. It was something else. Something that made his palms sweat and his thoughts tangle, but he didn’t say anything. So the feelings stayed with him, unspoken, growing quietly like the roots beneath your feet.
High school passed in a blur of shared classes, whispered jokes, and late nights laying in truck beds beneath the stars. People assume you were together, but you weren’t. However, neither of you corrected them. There were moments where the both of you almost confessed. Moments where your hands brushed his, where his gaze would linger too long. Silences thick with truth and possibility, but silence nonetheless.
Graduation came too fast. Caps flew in the air, smiles and cameras flashed. You stood beside him for every photo, shoulders brushing. The very same night, Dennis made a decision that would fracture everything.
He climbed through your window after midnight, the familiar creak of the frame was barely audible. You slept on your side, curled into a hoodie of his that he gave to you one chilly night. You were breathing softly, completely unaware.
He stood there for a long time watching you, memorizing you. He placed a letter on the bed beside you. His hand hovered near your cheek before he brushed a strand of hair away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though you couldn’t hear him.
Then he left. By the time you woke up, he was already gone and the silence he left behind felt louder than any goodbye.
You woke up to sunlight slipping through the curtains in soft, indifferent streaks, the kind of quiet morning that should have felt comforting, family, and ordinary, except something was wrong. Something that made your stomach twist before your eyes were fully open. At first, you thought it was the stillness. Dennis always woke you up on days off by throwing little pebbles at your window and the lack there of was starting to make you anxious. You rolled out of bed and looked at your window out of habit, fully prepared to hear the pebbles, but were met with nothing.
You frowned as your hair fell into your face. Then you saw the letter on the bed. Your name written in family, slightly messy handwriting that you could have recognized from miles away. Your heart dropped.
No.
No, no, no.
Your fingers trembled as you picked it up, the paper already soft from being handled too much, like he’d rewritten it a dozen times before settling on this version. The window beside your bed was cracked open just slightly, and a breeze lifted the edge of the curtains, confirming what your gut already knew.
He had been there. He had been close enough to touch and he left. You opened the letter with shaking hands, your eyes scanning too fast, and your brain trying to make sense of sentences that felt like they were dissolving as you read them.
He wrote about needing to leave, about not being ready, about finding himself. He wrote about how Broken Bow felt like a cage and how he couldn’t ever breathe, how he needed distance, how he couldn’t say goodbye out loud because he knew he’d stay if he saw your face. Was that so wrong? He wrote about everything except the words you had been waiting for.
Your vision blurred. You didn’t realize you were crying until the paper softened beneath your grip and your breath came out in uneven, broken sounds that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to you. It felt surreal, like you were hearing someone else fall apart from a distance, like the room tilted and you couldn’t quite find the ground anymore.
Your parents found you curled up on your bed half an hour later, the letter clutched in your hands, eyes swollen, and voice hoarse.
“He left…” you whispered, the words barely audible.
Your mom sat beside you immediately, pulling you into her arms, but it wasn’t the same steady, grounding comfort that you were used to.
“Where did he go?” your dad asked gently.
“Didn’t say.” your voice quivered.
The fact that he didn’t tell you hurt the most. He told you everything except that one thing that mattered.
George showed up an hour later, slamming his truck door with such intensity that it echoed across your yard. You heard him before actually seeing him, his boots heavy on the porch steps, voice already raised.
“You heard from him?”
You wiped your eyes before stepping outside and one look at you caused him to swear under his breath.
“He didn’t tell you, did he?”
You shook your head, holding onto that letter for dear life. You could see George’s jaw tighten.
“That idiot,” he sighed.
He stepped forward and pulled you into a rough, but sincere hug, his hand rubbing your back in awkward circles as you cried into his shoulder.
“He left us the same way.” George muttered. “Packed up before sunrise and didn’t tell anyone. Just up and left.”
“Everyone?” you stiffened.
“Yea.” he brushed some hair from your cheeks. “You weren’t singled out or anything… he didn’t tell anyone.”
His words should’ve made you feel better, but it didn’t.
Dennis told himself that he was doing the right thing. He told himself that leaving quietly was kinder, that dragging things out would only make it harder. He told himself that if he stayed long enough to hear your voice, to see your face and those gorgeous eyes, he wouldn’t go at all, and then he’d be trapped in the same small town, the same expectations, and the same unspoken pressure that had been building his entire life.
However, the farther he drove, the more the silence pressed in. Your laugh echoed in his head, your voice, your smile… He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, swallowing hard as he told himself over and over that he needed to do this, that he needed to become someone confident enough to come back and tell you the truth. He just didn’t realize how long that would take.
You, on the other hand, forced yourself to move forward. It wasn’t graceful, or immediate, but slow, painful, and full of setbacks. Eventually, you got out of bed without crying, packed for college, and eventually, you felt Broken Bow with a hollow feeling that refused to disappear. You told yourself you’d get over him, that he wasn’t your dream, that you had bigger goals. You had animals to save, a career to build, a life to create, but every time you came home during breaks, your heart betrayed you.
The first time you returned home, you saw George at the gas station.
“You just missed him,” he said casually, trying not to make it a big deal.
“What?” your stomach flipped. “He was here last weekend.”
You nodded, pretending it mattered, but it mattered more than anything in the world.
The second time, you arrived late at night, exhausted from finals. Tucker greeted you with a hug.
“You're bad at timing.” he teased.
“Why’s that?” your lips tugged into a smile.
“Dennis left this morning.” “I see…” your chest tightened so sharply that you had to look away.
The third time, you actually saw his truck. You pulled into town just as it passed you, both cars moving too fast to stop. You caught only a glimpse of him, his older, sharper profile was still painfully familiar. Your heart leapt into your throat and you almost turned around, but didn’t.
The near-misses became a pattern. A cruel rhythm that you were used to now. You arrived; he left. He arrived; you left. You were orbiting each other with no hope of ever colliding. George began to notice the pattern.
“You two doing this on purpose?” he asked once, half-joking.
“I’ve got some pretty wicked luck.” You forced a laugh, but he didn't look convinced.
“Is she doing okay?” Dennis would try to ask about you sometimes.
“She’s good.” George would shrug.
“Still wearing that vanilla perfume?” he leaned against the barn door, trying to sound casual.
“Why do you care?” his brother’s eyes narrowed.
“Just asking…” Dennis looked away. George didn’t respond after that.
Soon, years passed–six to be exact. Six years of almosts and what-ifs and memories that haunted the both of you. You built your life, he built his, but Broken Bow remained the same, waiting for the quiet moment when everything would finally collide. So, when you drove back that summer, you never expected that the timing would finally line up.
The air felt heavier than you remembered, thick with humidity and the familiar scent of hay, warm dirt, and something nostalgic that settled deep in your lungs the very second you rolled the windows down. The road stretched out in front of you in the same lazy curve it always had, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was about to beat out of your chest the closer you got to the Whitaker farm.
You told yourself that you were only here to see your parents, the animals, and the life you had built outside of him. So why were you still hoping to see him this time? You told yourself that six years was enough, that you were over him. You told yourself that the hollow space in your chest wasn’t still shaped exactly like Dennis Whitaker.
The gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled onto your parents’ land. Bear, who was just a little older now, still got excited as he recognized the scenery in front of him. The younger animals greeted you both enthusiastically, but the familiarity of everything made your chest ache. You spent the first day with the farm animals, grounding yourself, and convincing your mind that this visit would be different from the others, that you wouldn’t think about him, wouldn’t wonder where he was, wouldn’t ask about him in any way, shape, or form.
You made it almost twenty four hours. The next morning, your mom casually mentioned that the Whitakers would be having company this weekend.
“I think Dennis is back in town.” she said softly.
“Oh…” your heart stuttered so violently you had to grip the edge of the counter.
“You’ll probably see him.” she added.
You nodded, though your stomach twisted in a sick knot. You didn’t expect it to happen like this.
The sun sat high and warm in the sky when you wandered over to the Whitaker property the next afternoon, telling yourself that you were just visiting George, that this was normal, that you had grown up here and had every right to walk across the familiar stretch of land without feeling like you were trespassing onto something fragile. You heard laughter before you saw anyone. It startled you. It was bright, loud, familiar in a way that pulled something loose in your chest before you realized that it was your own. George spotted you first.
“Look what the cat brought in.” he called, grinning.
You smiled, relief loosening your shoulders as you walked closer, exchanging a quick hug that felt easy, as if months hadn’t passed.
“You’ve gotten shorter?” he teased.
“You’ve gotten ruder?” you nudged him.
He laughed at your response and gestured toward the orchard.
“Help me grab some apples, would you? Mom wants to make pies and cobblers for the guests we’re having.” you saw him bend down and before you could protest, you heard him say, “Hop up.”
“George–” you blinked.
“C’mon, you always needed help reaching the top ones.”
You laughed despite your hesitation and climbed onto his shoulders, gripping his free hand as the other arm steadied your legs and balance. You stretched toward the highest branch, the leaves brushing your arms, sunlight filtering through your hair in golden fragments, and for a moment, you felt sixteen again, carefree, warm, untouched by the years that had complicated everything.
Dennis heard your laugh from across the field. It sliced through him. He froze mid-step, breath catching as his brain struggled to process the sound. He had imagined it so many times over the years that he almost thought he was hallucinating again, that his mind was playing tricks on him like it did late at night when the memories came too vividly. Then he turned and saw you perched on George’s shoulders, hair catching sunlight, smiling widely as you reached for an apple. Your arms wrapped loosely around his brother’s head for balance, your voice light and unguarded in a way he hadn’t heard in six years.
Jealousy hit him so hard that he felt dizzy. It wasn’t rational nor was it fair, but it surged anyway. It was sharp and immediate, twisting in his chest as he watched George steady you, as he heard you laugh, as he saw how easily you fit into the space that he had once occupied. He hadn’t even spoken to you yet and he already felt like he was losing something. One thing’s for certain, he fell in love all over again in a single glance.
You didn’t see him. Not at first. You were too busy laughing, too busy enjoying the moment, too busy pretending that everything was normal. Eventually, you climbed down, brushing the leaves from your skirt, gaze drifting across the field when your eyes landed on him. Everything stopped. He looked older, broader in the shoulders, his jaw was sharper, his posture was now confident, but the expression on his face–wide-eyed, almost stunned–felt achingly familiar. For a moment, neither of you moved, the distance between you heavy with six years of silence and everything in between. You faltered and looked away first.
“Hey, Tucker’s inside.” George said, still unaware of the silent collision that had just happened. “Amy’s bringing the baby tomorrow too.
“Amy?” your stomach dropped.
“Yeah,” Tucker called from the porch after hearing his name. “Dennis is going to lose it when he sees her. He’s been talking about them nonstop.”
Your chest tightened.
Baby.
Them.
Dennis.
Your mind filled in the gaps instantly, painfully, illogically. Of course he had built a life. Of course six years had meant something different for him. The idea settled like a weight in your lungs, making it harder to breathe. You smiled weakly, nodding as if you were processing normal information instead of feeling like the ground had shifted beneath you.
“I… I should get back home…” you murmured.
No one questioned it. You left before you could see Dennis take a step toward you.
The next day, you didn't return. You told yourself that it was fine, that you needed space. You told yourself you didn't want to intrude on his family, didn’t want to stand awkwardly while he held someone else’s child, didn’t want to see the confirmation of what you already convinced yourself was true, but the farm buzzed with activity. Dennis continued to glance toward the road.
“Where is she?” he finally asked George. “No idea.” He shrugged back.
“She was here yesterday.” “Mhm.”
“Did she say she was leaving?” Dennis’ stomach twisted as George gave him a look. “Funny, coming from you.
The words hit harder than Dennis expected. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away.
You stayed away the entire day, listening to the distant laughter that the wind carried, imagining scenes you didn’t want to picture. Scenes that included Dennis holding a baby, Dennis standing beside someone named Amy, Dennis looking content, complete, and settled in a life that didn’t include you. By evening, you decided to leave. Not forever, just… early… before you embarrassed yourself. Before you did something reckless like confronting him. You packed your bags quietly, hands moving faster than your thoughts.
Dennis noticed your absence growing louder with each passing hour and by sunset, he was restless. By nightfall, he began pacing.
“She didn’t come back?” he asked Tucker. “No.”
Something cold settled in his chest. He remembered the letter, he remembered leaving, he remembered how it felt to disappear. Panic spread through him. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out the door.
“I’m going to check–” he didn’t finish because across the field, he saw the lights of your car.
He saw you loading your bags into the trunk. Fear surged so violently that it stole his breath and he started running. He didn’t think, just ran, boots pounding against the ground, heart hammering as the possibility hit him all at once–you were leaving, again–and he hadn’t even spoken to you.
Dennis didn’t realize he was running until his lungs were already burning and the gravel at the edge of the drive cut sharply through the soles of his boots. His body was moving on pure instinct as the sight of you placing the final bag into your trunk triggered something primal and desperate inside him, something that had been simmering quietly ever since he saw you the day before and now erupted into full-blown panic at the realization that he was about to lose you again before he had even managed to say your name.
“Wait–!”
The word tore from his throat, raw and strained, like it hurt to get it out.
You froze with your hand on the driver’s door, your shoulders stiffening before you slowly turned to face him, and the moment your eyes met his, something in his chest twisted painfully because you looked like you were already bracing for impact, like you were preparing yourself for disappointment before he had even opened his mouth.
The air between you felt heavy, thick with everything unsaid over six years, and he suddenly became hyperaware of how close he was, how familiar the sight of you was, how much older you both looked and yet how nothing about the way his heart reacted had changed at all.
The scent of your perfume reached him first–soft vanilla, the exact same one you’d worn since high school–and the familiarity hit him so hard his knees nearly gave out, the sensory memory colliding with the present until he felt momentarily disoriented, like he’d stepped backward in time only to be slammed forward again by the reality that you were leaving.
“Where are you going?” he asked, breathless, his voice rough from the run and the fear tightening his throat. “Why are you leaving me?”
You let out a small laugh that didn’t hold any humor, your lips trembling slightly.
“Why do you care?”
The question struck deeper than he expected, because he had no idea how to compress six years of missing you into a single coherent answer, no idea how to explain that seeing you again had undone him in seconds, that watching you disappear now felt unbearable in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
“Because I–I just–you got here and I–” he stumbled, words colliding uselessly.
“You don’t have to pretend.” You shook your head, tears already gathering in your eyes.
“I’m not pretending—”
“You have a whole life, Dennis.” “What?” He blinked, confused.
“You have Amy,” you said quietly, your voice breaking.
“You have the baby. I heard everyone talking about how you’ve been helping her, how excited you were for her to visit, how she wanted to see your family farm. I’m not stupid. I can put two and two together.”
“That’s not–” His stomach dropped.
“You left me,” you cut in suddenly, the words spilling out like they’d been trapped for years, your composure crumbling in real time.
“You left me with a letter and no explanation, and I spent months wondering what I did wrong, wondering if I imagined everything between us, wondering if I meant anything to you at all.”
He swallowed hard, guilt flooding him.
“You were my best friend,” you continued, your voice shaking but growing stronger as the truth poured out.
“You were the person I told everything to, the person who knew me better than anyone, the person I thought I’d always have, and then you just… disappeared. No goodbye, no warning, nothing.”
“I thought–” he tried, but you were already unraveling.
“I waited for you,” you admitted, wiping at your cheeks.
“Every time I came home, I thought maybe this would be the time we’d run into each other. George told me you’d been there, Tucker told me you’d just left, and it felt like some kind of cruel joke, like we were orbiting each other but never actually colliding.”
Dennis’s chest tightened painfully.
“Then yesterday,” you said, your voice softer now, more fragile, “I saw you again, and it felt like nothing had changed. Like I was still that girl who fell in love with her best friend and never said anything because she was too afraid of ruining everything.”
His breath caught.
“I told myself I was over you. I told myself I’d moved on, that I had my career, my life, my own dreams… but the truth is, I never stopped. Not once in six years did I ever stop loving you.” You laughed weakly.
The words landed like a blow.
“And hearing about Amy,” you continued, “hearing about how you’d been helping her on her farm, how you were there when the baby was born, how she wanted to come see your family… I just assumed. I assumed you’d built a life with her. That you’d found someone. That you had the family we never even got the chance to talk about.”
“No–no, that’s not–please–” He shook his head quickly.
“I can’t do this again,” you whispered, your voice breaking completely.
“I can’t stand here and pretend I’m okay while you’ve moved on, while you have this whole other life. I can’t keep holding onto something that only ever existed in my head.”
You looked at him then, eyes glassy and full of pain. “I loved you, Dennis. I still do. And maybe if you hadn’t left… maybe things would’ve been different, but you did. And now you have someone else, and I can’t be here watching that.”
He stared at you, stunned into silence, his mind scrambling to process everything at once–the confession, the misunderstanding, the realization that you loved him back all along.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Your face fell as the silence stretched.
“Right,” you murmured, nodding faintly. “That’s… that’s what I thought.”
You turned, sliding into the driver’s seat, your hands trembling on the steering wheel.
“I hope she makes you happy,” you said quietly, not looking at him. “You deserve that and so much more. You deserve the world.”
The engine started.
“Wait–” he croaked, finally stepping forward, panic flooding him as the car began to roll.
You met his eyes one last time, heartbreak etched across your face. “Goodbye, Dennis.”
The tires crunched over gravel as you drove away, and he stood there helplessly, watching the taillights shrink into the distance, his brain finally catching up all at once.
You loved him.
You thought Amy was his partner.
You left because of him.
His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees in the dirt, hands shaking as the weight of it crashed down on him, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. He pounded the gravel beneath him in frustration.
“Dennis, what happened?” Trinity reached him moments later.
“She—she thinks Amy—” he choked.
“Amy is your friend. You told her that, right?” Trinity groaned.
“I froze. I didn’t—I didn’t know what to say.” He shook his head, panic rising.
“Dennis,” she said sharply, “Amy lost her husband. You helped her because you’re kind and because you missed home. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”
“She thinks I have a family. She thinks I moved on.” He pressed his hands to his face, voice trembling.
“Then go after her.” Trinity’s expression softened slightly.
“I don’t know where she’s going.” He looked up, eyes wide with horror.
The realization settled heavy and suffocating. He didn’t know. He didn’t know when you’d be back. He didn’t even know how to contact you and as panic tightened around his chest, Dennis Whitaker realized with crushing clarity that he had just watched the person he loved most drive away… and he had no idea how to find you again. He remained in the dirt long after the dust from your tires had settled, long after the last echo of gravel crunching under your wheels had faded into the night, his knees pressed into the dry ground as though the earth itself were the only thing holding him upright, his mind replaying your words over and over again in a loop that grew more suffocating each time.
I loved you.
I still do.
You have a family.
I can’t do this again.
The silence he had given you felt louder now than anything he had ever said. It roared in his ears, pressed against his chest, and hollowed him out from the inside. He hadn’t meant to freeze. He hadn’t meant to let the moment slip through his fingers. He hadn’t meant to repeat the worst mistake of his life in real time, but that was exactly what he had done, and now he could still see your face when the realization dawned that he wasn’t going to stop you, when your expression shifted from fragile hope to resigned heartbreak, and the memory made his stomach churn violently.
He didn’t even notice Trinity kneeling beside him. .
“Huckleberry,” she said softly, though there was tension threaded through her voice. “You need to breathe.”
He dragged in air that didn’t feel like enough.
Boots approached from behind.
Heavy.
Fast.
George.
“What happened?” George demanded, the sharpness in his tone cutting through the haze.
“She left.” Trinity glanced up.
George’s eyes snapped to Dennis, and the shift in his expression from confusion to realization to anger was not only immediate, but also explosive.
“You let her leave?”
“She thinks… she thinks Amy and the baby are–” Dennis swallowed, his throat dry.
Before he could finish, George grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet with a force that made his head spin, dust shaking loose from his clothes.
“You didn’t tell her?” George demanded, his voice low and furious in a way that was far more dangerous than shouting.
“I tried—” Dennis stammered. “I froze. I didn’t—”
“You froze. That’s your excuse?” George shoved him backward, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to send the message.
“George—” Trinity warned.
“No,” George snapped, turning on Dennis again. “No, he doesn’t get off easy for this.”
Dennis didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise his hands. He stood there, shoulders slumped, guilt heavy in every line of his body, because George wasn’t wrong, and some part of him almost welcomed the anger, like he deserved to be hit with it.
“She waited for you,” George continued, pacing now, his agitation barely contained.
“Do you understand that? Every single time she came home, she asked about you. She’d pretend it didn’t matter, but I could see it. I watched her try to act normal when I told her she missed you by a day. Or by a few hours. Or by ten damn minutes.”
Dennis flinched.
“You left her with a letter,” George said, pointing at him. “No explanation. No goodbye. And now she finally tells you she loves you, and you stand there and let her walk away again?”
“I didn’t know she—” Dennis started weakly.
“That’s the problem!” George exploded. “You never know, because you never say anything! You keep everything locked up until it’s too late, and everyone else pays for it!”
The words landed heavy and unforgiving.
“She thinks Amy—” Dennis’s hands shook.
“Amy is your friend,” George cut in. “You helped her because she lost her husband, because you’re not a terrible person, and because working on her farm made you feel closer to home. That’s it. And you couldn’t even tell her that?”
Dennis closed his eyes briefly, shame flooding him.
George exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“So what now?”
“I… I don’t know where she went.” Dennis opened his eyes.
The admission sounded hollow.
“Then you find out.” George stared at him.
“How?”
George stepped closer again, his voice quieter but still intense. “You don’t get to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. Figure it out on your own. You call her parents, talk to her friends, drive until you find her if you have to. If you love her–and God, Dennis, it’s blatantly obvious that you do–then you fight for her.”
The word fight settled deep.Dennis nodded slowly, determination flickering through the panic.
The next morning, Dennis drove to your parents’ house before the sun had fully risen, the sky still painted in muted shades of gray and pale gold, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary as anxiety churned in his stomach. He rehearsed what he would say over and over again, but the words still felt inadequate, too small for the weight of what he had done.
Your dad answered the door, his expression hard and callous.
“She left,” he said matter of factly.
“I know,” he replied, voice tight. “Do you know where she went?”
He hesitated, studying him. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I messed up,” he admitted quietly. “And I need to fix it.”
His expression softened slightly, but he shook his head. “She didn’t tell us. Just that she needed space.”
Dennis nodded, disappointment heavy.
He didn’t stop there.
He called old friends. He called George’s contacts. He searched social media. He drove to places you used to go–parks, cafés, the lake–knowing it was unlikely but unable to sit still.
Days blurred.
Sleep became optional.
Food felt irrelevant.
He replayed your confession constantly, clinging to it like a fragile lifeline.
Nearly a week later, he was back at work when he received a text from George
“She posted something.” was all he said
Dennis didn’t notice the texts at first.The emergency department was loud in the way it always was–controlled chaos, voices layered over monitors, the steady rhythm of urgency that never quite stopped. He moved through it on autopilot, exhaustion sitting heavy in his bones, mind carefully avoiding anything that might drift back to Broken Bow because Broken Bow meant you.
It meant apple trees and late summer heat, gravel stuck to the bottoms of bare feet, and a laugh that still echoed in his head at the worst possible times—like when he walked past the park and saw someone tossing a tennis ball for their dog, or when he smelled vanilla and citrus and something distinctly you.He had gotten very good at not thinking about those things.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice.Three times.
He ignored it, scrubbing his hands, glancing over labs, finishing charting. He couldn’t afford distraction–not when every second mattered, not when thinking too hard meant remembering the look on your face when you drove away. The way your knuckles had gone white on the steering wheel. The way he had stood there, useless, silent, watching you leave for the second time in his life.
The fourth buzz finally made him pull it out.
George:
You need to call me.
Now.
She’s in Pittsburgh.
She posted.
Said she’s visiting.
Dennis froze. Everything else blurred. The words burned into him, hot and disorienting. You were here. Not a memory, not a ghost tied to an apple orchard and dusty gravel road, but here. In his city. Walking the same streets. Breathing the same air. His chest tightened so quickly it almost hurt.
His hands trembled as he started typing.
Where–
“Incoming GSW! Two minutes!” someone shouted.
Dennis shoved his phone away instantly. Training overrode everything else. “Trauma three,” Robby called, already moving. “Prep blood. Two large-bore IVs. Let’s go.”
He didn’t allow himself to think about you again. He couldn’t. Not now. Sirens wailed outside ad the ambulance doors burst open.
“Female, mid-twenties,” a paramedic reported breathlessly.
“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Single entry. BP’s dropping.”
Dennis stepped forward, eyes scanning the wound, the blood soaking through fabric. He moved quickly, pressing gauze down, voice calm, controlled.
“Stay with me,” he murmured automatically.
Your skin was pale, lips slightly parted, breaths shallow. He focused on vitals. On pressure. On protocol.
“…Den…?” Your head turned slightly.
The sound barely reached him, swallowed by noise. He didn’t register it fully–just a flicker, a hesitation. Your perfume hit him next. Soft, familiar, and wrong in this sterile place. His chest tightened, but he pushed it aside.
“BP?” “82 over palp.”
“EFAST exam,” Trinity ordered, swallowing hard.
The ultrasound showed free fluid, internal bleeding.
“Call OR,” he said quickly. “She needs surgery now.”
He grabbed your hand without thinking, squeezing.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice strained.
Your fingers curled weakly around his, eyes fluttering. Recognition softened your expression like you had found something safe in the middle of chaos, but before his mind could catch up, before he could truly see, you slipped again, and the team rushed you toward surgery. He walked beside the stretcher, heart racing for reasons he didn’t fully understand. Something tugged at him, something deeply familiar, but adrenaline kept him locked in.
The OR doors closed. Silence followed and Dennis slid down the wall outside, breathing hard, your blood still staining his scrubs. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to steady himself. His palms smelled faintly metallic, and he couldn’t shake the strange, aching pull in his chest.
That’s when the commotion started. Raised voices.
“There’s a dog in here–!”
“Whose dog is that?!”
Dennis barely looked up at first before he heard the whine. Low. Deep. Worried. It pierced straight through him. He stood slowly, legs unsteady, and turned toward the ambulance bay.
The ED had parted. The staff hovered cautiously and in the center stood a massive black Newfoundland, chest heaving, fur damp, eyes frantic as they searched the hallway. Dennis’s breath caught.
“Bear…?” he whispered.
The dog’s head snapped up instantly. Bear recognized him immediately and rushed forward, nails clicking loudly, whining softly.
Dennis’s stomach dropped. Bear. Your Bear. Your guard since childhood. The pieces slammed together with brutal force.The perfume, the voice whispering his name, the familiarity he couldn’t place, the way she had looked at him like she knew him, the patient. You.
“Fuck–” His voice broke. “No… no, no…”
He dropped to his knees as Bear reached him, pressing his massive head into Dennis’s chest. Dennis gripped the thick fur, shaking.
“You followed her…” he whispered hoarsely.
Around him, paramedics explained.
“He ran after the ambulance.”
“Wouldn’t leave her side.”
“He kept nudging her hand.”
Dennis squeezed his eyes shut. You hadn’t been alone. Bear had stayed. Dennis hadn’t even realized it was you.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t know it was her… I didn’t–”
Guilt crashed over him, heavy and suffocating. It felt like Broken Bow all over again, another moment where you needed him, another moment where he froze, another moment where he failed to see what was right in front of him.
He replayed it over and over again–your voice faintly saying his name. The way you looked at him. The recognition in your eyes, soft even through pain. You had known. You had seen him and he… He hadn’t recognized you until now. Dennis pressed his forehead into Bear’s fur, shoulders shaking.
“She’s in surgery,” he murmured. “They’re trying to save her.”
Bear whined, glancing toward the OR doors, restless and anxious. Dennis wrapped an arm around him, holding on like he might fall apart otherwise.
“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen you… I should’ve noticed… you were right there… you even said my name…”
His voice fractured completely. Memories flooded him, your laugh under the apple tree, the way you used to swing your legs off the fence while Bear laid at your feet, your voice confessing in the dark, trembling but brave, while he stood there mute.
“I keep failing you,” he choked. “Every time… I freeze… I don’t say what I should… I don’t fight hard enough… I let you walk away… twice…”
Bear leaned heavily against him, grounding him. Dennis looked toward the closed OR doors, eyes burning.
“You came all the way here,” he whispered. “And I still almost lost you… I didn’t even realize I was holding your life in my hands…”
His breathing hitched, uneven and shaky.
“I love you,” he said softly, the words finally spilling free.
“I loved you when you taught me not to be scared of Bear… I loved you when you said you’d be a veterinarian… I loved you when you cried in my arms the night before graduation… I just… I was too much of a coward to say it.”
The hallway remained silent. He pressed his hand over his mouth, voice muffled.
“When you make it out of there,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you every day. I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll drive to Broken Bow, I’ll beg, I’ll sleep on your porch, I’ll–I’ll do anything… just don’t leave me again.”
Bear’s tail thumped once against the floor.
Dennis rested his head against the dog’s, tears slipping free.
“I don’t deserve another chance,” he admitted. “But I’m begging for one anyway. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you… I swear I will… just please… please come back.”
The OR light remained on.
And Dennis stayed there on the floor, clinging to Bear, heart breaking and yearning all at once, whispering into the quiet—
The OR doors finally opened nearly three hours later.
Dennis had stopped noticing time after the first hour. He sat on the floor beside Bear, back against the wall, fingers buried in thick black fur, whispering half-formed apologies into the silence. Every time the surgical light flickered, his heart jumped into his throat.
When the doors swung open, he was on his feet instantly. His legs nearly gave out again when he saw the blood on the surgical team’s gowns. Dr. Garcia stepped out first, pulling off her gloves. Her expression wasn’t unreadable, but Dennis knew her well enough to recognize the careful neutrality she wore when things were… uncertain.
“Dennis,” she said gently.
That alone made his chest tighten. She never used his name like that.
“How–” His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. “How is she?”
“She’s alive.” Dr. Garcia exhaled slowly.
The words hit him like oxygen after drowning. His shoulders sagged, relief washing through him so hard it made him dizzy, but she didn’t stop there.
“The bullet caused significant internal damage,” she continued carefully. “It entered the left lower abdomen. We had to repair a section of her small intestine. There was also injury to the mesenteric vessels…she lost a lot of blood. We controlled the bleeding, but she went hypotensive for a while.”
Dennis’s medical brain translated automatically. Severe. Very severe.
“She’s stable now,” Dr. Garcia added, softer. “But she’s not waking up yet. She’s in a medically supported coma. Partly from sedation, partly because her body’s been through a lot. We want her to rest.”
Dennis nodded, though his throat felt too tight to speak.
“She might wake on her own,” Dr. Garcia said. “Sometimes hearing familiar voices helps. Talking to her… it can stimulate neurological response.”
Dennis blinked. “You want me to–”
“Yes,” she said curtly. “Go sit with her.”
He didn’t remember walking to the ICU. One moment he was in the hallway and the next he was standing at the doorway of your room, afraid to step inside. Machines surrounded you. Monitors. IV pumps. Oxygen tubing. The steady beep of your heart rate filled the quiet.
You looked so small…A bandage wrapped across your abdomen. Bruises were already blooming along your skin. Your hand lay limp against the sheet. Dennis’s chest cracked open. He pulled a chair close and sat slowly, like any sudden movement might break the fragile reality that you were still here.
His hand hovered before finally settling over yours. You were warm and that alone almost undid him.
“Hey…” he whispered, voice shaking. “It’s me.”
He laughed weakly.
“God, I don’t even know if you can hear me… but… Dr. Garcia said I should talk to you. So… I’m gonna talk. And… you don’t get to complain about how much I ramble this time.” His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles.
“Do you remember the first day we met?” he murmured. “You were six. You had mud all over your knees… and Bear—he was so small then… and I was terrified of him. You laughed at me for, like, a week straight.” His voice softened, slipping into memory.
“You grabbed my hand… dragged me right up to him… told me he was just a baby. You said, ‘He won’t bite you, Dennis, he just wants to be your friend.’” His throat tightened.
“You always did that… you made scary things feel safe.” He leaned closer.
“I should’ve done that for you… and I didn’t. I left. I didn’t tell you. I let you think I didn’t care… I let you cry… I let you drive away…” His fingers tightened gently around yours.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.” He paused, swallowing.
“I’ve loved you our whole lives. I just… I didn’t know how to be someone who deserved you. I thought if I left… if I came back better… I could tell you. But I never did. I froze again.”
His voice cracked.
“And then you showed up… and you told me you loved me… and I still froze. God, I hate myself for that. I watched you leave… again.” He bowed his head, resting it on your hand.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I never stopped. Not in college, not in Pittsburgh, not for a single day. Every time I saw a big dog… every time I smelled your perfume… every time I passed an apple… it was you.” He laughed softly, wet with tears.
“You’re still ruining apples for me, you know that?” He squeezed your hand gently.
“You came all this way… and you got hurt… and I didn’t even recognize you at first. You said my name… and I still didn’t see it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I keep failing you.” He leaned even closer, voice barely audible.
“If you wake up… I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’ll tell you everything I should’ve said years ago. I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever you want. Just… please wake up.”
The monitor continued its steady rhythm.
Dennis brushed his thumb over your hand again, softer now.
“And if you can hear me…” he whispered, “I just want you to know… I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”
He swallowed hard, blinking away tears.
“And… when you wake up,” he added gently, “I’ll tell you all of this again… in case you didn’t hear me.”
He squeezed your hand once more.
“I promise… I’ll say it as many times as it takes.”
Dennis had been talking for so long that his voice had gone rough at the edges, each word scraping past a throat that felt too tight. He sat curled forward in the chair, one hand wrapped around yours, the other rubbing slow circles over his brow as exhaustion and fear fought for space in his chest.
“…and you used to steal my hoodies,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “You’d say you were cold, but you just liked wearing them… and I never told you I noticed… because I didn’t want you to stop.”
He let out a small, tired breath. The room was dim, monitors glowing softly in the quiet. Bear lay sprawled just outside the doorway–hospital staff had finally relented after Dennis insisted he was calm, that he’d stay out of the way. The dog hadn’t moved in hours, head resting on his paws, eyes fixed on you like he was guarding you even in sleep. Dennis’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.
“I told you I’d say everything again when you woke up,” he whispered. “I meant it. I’m still gonna–”
Your fingers twitched. Dennis froze. He stared, not daring to breathe. For a second he thought he imagined it–wishful thinking, exhaustion, desperation. Then your fingers moved again, weak but unmistakable.
“Hey–” His chair scraped loudly as he leaned forward. “Hey, hey… I’m here.”
Your eyelids fluttered and he stood so fast the room tilted.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice trembling. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Your eyes opened. They were unfocused, glassy, drifting across the ceiling before settling slowly on him. For one fleeting second, hope flared so bright it hurt. Then confusion filled your expression. Your brows pulled together faintly. You swallowed, throat dry, voice barely audible.
“…Where… am I…?”
“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, stepping closer. “You had surgery, but you’re okay. You’re safe now.”
Your gaze stayed on him as if you were searching for something. Dennis’s smile faltered, but he pushed forward anyway.
“It’s me,” he whispered softly. “Dennis.”
You blinked.
“…Dennis?” you repeated, like the name meant nothing and the hope inside him cracked.
“Yes,” he said quickly, nodding. “Yeah. I– I’m Dennis.”
You looked at his face more carefully now, studying him like a stranger. Your eyes flicked to his hand holding yours. You seemed to register the closeness, the familiarity of his posture, the redness in his eyes. Your lips parted.
“I… I don’t…” You swallowed again, visibly distressed. “I don’t remember.”
The words landed like a punch to the chest. Dennis stepped back instinctively, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he said too fast. “That’s–that’s normal. Temporary. You lost blood, you hit your head, you were under anesthesia–it happens.”But his voice was already breaking.
You looked around the room, panic creeping in.
“Why… why are you… here?” you whispered. “Do… do I know you?”
He couldn’t answer. His mouth opened then closed.
Your gaze shifted toward the doorway, spotting the massive black shape lying there.
“Is… that dog… mine?” you asked weakly, confusion deepening.
Bear lifted his head at the sound of your voice, tail thumping softly once. He stood slowly and padded closer, stopping near the foot of the bed, whining low in his throat. You stared at him.
“…He looks like he knows me,” you murmured, uncertain.
Dennis’s chest tightened painfully.
“That’s Bear,” he said hoarsely. “He’s yours. He followed the ambulance. He… wouldn’t leave you.”
You watched Bear carefully, your expression softening with faint instinctual warmth, but still no memory.
“…I don’t remember him either,” you whispered, which broke something in Dennis.
He turned away abruptly, pressing his hand to his mouth. His shoulders began to shake, the sound he tried to suppress escaping anyway. It was raw, wounded. You flinched slightly, startled.
“I’m… I’m sorry. I’ve upset you,” you said weakly. “Did I… did I forget something important?”
Dennis let out a broken laugh, half sob.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Yeah… you did, but I’ll help you remember again.”
He wiped at his face, trying to pull himself together, but the tears kept coming. Six years of missing you. Hours of begging you to wake up. Every confession he’d poured into your sleeping silence was gone.
You looked at him helplessly.
“Were… were we… friends?” you asked softly.
The question gutted him.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Friends.” “…Just friends?” You hesitated.
Dennis’s breath hitched. He shook his head slowly, unable to lie.
“No.” Your confusion deepened, eyes darting between him and Bear. “Then… what were we?”
Dennis’s composure shattered completely. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bed rail, tears falling freely now.
“You were… everything,” he whispered. “You are everything.”
You watched him, wide-eyed, overwhelmed by the intensity of someone you didn’t recognize grieving you like this.
“I don’t understand,” you murmured, voice trembling.
“I know,” he said quickly, nodding. “I know, I’m sorry… I don’t mean to— I just—”
He looked at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“I waited six years to see you again,” he whispered. “I told you I loved you while you were asleep… I promised I’d say it again when you woke up… and now you don’t even know who I am.”
Bear whined softly, resting his chin on the mattress near your leg. You instinctively reached toward him. Your fingers brushed his fur, and he leaned into the touch immediately. Dennis watched, heart breaking in a new way.
“You still… trust him,” he said quietly. “Even if you don’t remember.”
You stroked Bear weakly, eyes flicking back to Dennis.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again. “I wish I remembered… you look… really sad.”
“Yeah. I am.” He laughed through tears.
He hesitated, then slowly reached forward again, stopping short of touching your hand.
“I’ll… I’ll tell you everything again,” he said softly. “Every memory. Every stupid thing. The apple trees. The farm. How you taught me not to be scared of him. All of it… I just didn’t think I’d have to start from zero.”His voice cracked.
The room fell quiet except for the monitor’s steady beeping and Bear’s soft breathing. Dennis looked at you like he was mourning someone still alive.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, even though it sounded fragile now. “Even if you don’t remember me… I’ll stay. I’ll wait until you do. Or… until you don’t. I’ll still stay.”
And the devastation in his eyes made it clear, he would fall in love with you all over again, even if you never remembered him at all.
The next few days blurred together in a quiet, fragile rhythm. Dennis barely left your side. He helped the nurses reposition you when the pain made you wince. He held the cup when you were finally allowed small sips of water. He adjusted your pillows, too many times to count, like if he could make you comfortable enough you might remember something.
Bear stayed nearby, often curled at the foot of the bed, occasionally lifting his head when you shifted. You had grown used to his presence quickly, instinctively reaching for him when the confusion overwhelmed you. Dennis watched that every time, something warm and painful flickering behind his eyes.
“Do you remember this?” he would ask softly, showing you photos on his phone–pictures George had sent him, old ones from Broken Bow. You as kids, muddy and laughing. You hugging Bear when he was still half his current size. Apple trees in late summer. You studied them carefully then shook your head.
“I’m sorry,” you would whisper.
Each apology chipped something inside him. He tried telling you stories instead.
“You used to climb that old fence behind your house… you’d swing your legs and pretend it was a throne…” Nothing.
“You made me promise I’d never be scared of Bear again…” Nothing.
“You cried when I left for college…” He regretted that one immediately, watching confusion and discomfort flicker across your face.
“I don’t… I don’t remember,” you said softly.
“It’s okay. I’ll keep trying.” He smiled anyway, but the exhaustion was starting to show. His eyes were rimmed red. He barely slept. He talked like someone trying to outrun silence.
On the third day, he brought you apple slices.
“They’re from the farmer’s market,” he said quietly. “Not the same… but close.”
“They’re good.” You took one, chewing slowly, eyes lighting up.
“You used to–” He smiled, hopeful.
“I don’t remember,” you finished gently.
The hope dimmed again. Still, he stayed. He helped you sit up for the first time, hands careful at your shoulders.
“Easy… you’re doing great,” he murmured, voice soft like he was afraid you might break.
Your fingers brushed his wrist as you steadied yourself. The contact lingered. For a moment, something flickered across your expression, maybe familiarity.
Dennis held his breath, but it faded.
“I’m tired,” you whispered.
“Yeah, of course. Rest.” He nodded quickly.
He pulled the blanket up gently, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Nothing was working. Every memory he offered dissolved into confusion. Every story fell flat. You were kind to him, gentle even, but distant. Like he was someone important you couldn’t quite place, but not someone who lived in your heart. It was slowly destroying him.
That afternoon, there was a soft knock at the door. Dennis was mid-sentence, telling you about the time Bear fell into the irrigation ditch and soaked both of you, when the door opened. A woman stepped in, holding a baby against her shoulder. Dennis froze. You looked at them curiously.
“Hey… I was looking for–” The woman smiled gently.
Your eyes widened slightly. Something sharp pierced through the fog.
“…Amy?” you whispered.
The room went still. Dennis’s heart dropped straight to the floor. Panic rising in his throat like never before. You stared at her, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused like something painful was surfacing too quickly.
You weren’t looking at her anymore. You were looking at Dennis and suddenly, it all came back, not in warm fragments, but in a flood of cold, sharp memory.
Apple trees.
The farm.
His silence.
Tucker mentioning Amy.
The baby.
The panic.
The belief he had moved on.
Your confession.
His silence again.
Driving away with your heart shattered.
Your expression changed. The softness disappeared, replaced with something cold and guarded. Dennis saw it happen in real time, and it terrified him more than the amnesia ever had.
“…You,” you whispered, voice hollow.
“You… remember?” His breath hitched.
“I remember.” Your eyes hardened slightly causing Amy to shift awkwardly, sensing the tension.
“I–I can come back later–”
“It’s okay,” you murmured, but your gaze never left Dennis.
The distance between you felt enormous now.
“I think… I need you to leave,” you said quietly.
The words cut deeper than anything.
“What?” Dennis blinked.
“I need space,” you clarified, voice still soft but firm. “Please.”
“No–wait–please–” He stepped forward, panic rising. “You just got your memories back, you don’t–you don’t understand–” His chest tightened violently.
“I understand,” you said, calm in a way that felt colder than anger. “You left. Twice. I told you how I felt… and you said nothing.”
“I was in shock–I didn’t–I love you, I just–” Dennis’s face crumpled.
You shook your head slightly, wincing at the movement. “I can’t do this right now.”
The finality in your voice shattered him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed before he even realized what he was doing.
“Please don’t send me away,” he begged, voice breaking. “I can’t—not again. I just got you back.”
Your expression flickered, but you stayed quiet.
“I was a coward,” he continued, tears falling freely. “I know I was. I froze. I hurt you. I’ve regretted it every day since I told you all of this while you were asleep.I promised I’d tell you again. I love you. I never stopped loving you. Please…” His trembling hands hovered near yours but didn’t touch.
“Please… don’t leave me again,” he whispered. “I’ll stay quiet. I won’t push. I’ll just sit here. I just… I can’t walk out of this room and not know if I’ll see you again.”
Your heart twisted painfully, but the hurt was still too fresh.
“I need time,” you said softly. “I’ll give you time… just… let me stay.” He shook his head desperately.
“Dennis… please.” You closed your eyes briefly.
The plea in your voice was gentle, but it was still a no. His shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him, replaced by quiet devastation.
“…Okay,” he whispered.
He stood slowly, like it physically hurt to move away from you.
“I’ll be right outside,” he added, voice fragile. “If you need anything. If you change your mind. If you… remember something else.” He paused at the door, looking back at you one last time, eyes full of yearning and regret.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.
Then he stepped out, cracking the door behind him, and leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, breaking all over again just on the other side, while Bear padded out after him and rested his head on his shoulder. Inside the room, you stared at the door, heart aching, unsure whether pushing him away was protecting yourself or breaking both of you all over again.
Dennis went back to work because he didn’t know what else to do. The first shift felt unreal, like he was walking through someone else’s life. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The sounds of monitors and overhead pages blurred into meaningless noise. His hands moved on instinct, checking vitals, reviewing charts, responding to consults, but there was no presence behind it. Just muscle memory. He functioned and that was all.
Patients spoke to him and he nodded at the right moments. Nurses asked questions and he answered correctly. He signed orders, reviewed labs, and charted notes. Every action was precise, automatic, hollow. He wasn’t really there.
The only moments that felt real were his breaks. He’d retreat to the empty stairwell or the far corner of the staff lounge, phone clutched in his hand. He’d scroll through photos of you until the world narrowed to just the two of you again, muddy boots at the farm, your hair caught in sunlight, you laughing with your head thrown back while Bear tried to climb into your lap despite being far too big. His thumb would hover over the screen, tracing your face without touching it. Sometimes he’d whisper to the photo.
“I’m still here,” he’d murmur. “I didn’t leave. I’m not going to leave.”
Other times he’d just stare, eyes glassy, shoulders slumped, like he was trying to memorize you all over again in case you slipped away. Then there were the nights. He learned your sleep schedule unintentionally… when the nurses dimmed the lights, when the hallway quieted, when the ICU settled into its low hum. Those were the only times he allowed himself to go back to your room, but he never stayed long. Just enough to stand quietly near the door, watching the rise and fall of your chest. Sometimes Bear would lift his head and wag softly when he saw him. Sometimes Dennis would sit in the chair again, hands clasped, afraid to touch you in case you woke and asked him to leave.
“You look peaceful,” he’d whisper. “I wish I knew what you were dreaming about. I hope it's me.” He’d leave before you stirred.
It was the closest he could get to you now. Trinity noticed immediately. Dennis had always been quiet, but this was different. He moved like someone carrying something heavy inside his ribs. He forgot to eat. His scrubs hung looser. Dark circles carved deep shadows under his eyes. One night, Trinity found him sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his phone in silence.
“You’re wasting away,” Trinity said bluntly, leaning against the counter. “I’m fine.” Dennis didn’t look up.
“No, you’re not.” Trinity crossed her arms. “You’re barely sleeping, you don’t talk anymore, and you keep looking at those same photos like they’re oxygen.”
“They kind of are.” Dennis swallowed.
“You need to fight for her, man. Not… whatever this is.” Trinity sighed, frustration softening into concern.
“I am fighting,” Dennis whispered.
“By lurking outside her room when she’s asleep?” Trinity pressed. “By starving yourself and hoping she changes her mind?”
“She asked for space.” Dennis’s jaw tightened.
“And you’re giving her your entire life in return?” She shook her head. “You’re letting this destroy you.”
“It already has.” Dennis finally looked up, eyes dull but intense.
The words hung heavy in the room.
“You think she’d want to see you like this?” She exhaled slowly.
“I don’t know what she wants anymore.” Dennis’s voice broke.
The tough love didn’t land the way Trinity hoped. It just settled into the already-deep exhaustion weighing on Dennis. Days passed like that, gray and indistinct. Then one afternoon, Dennis walked past your room and heard laughter. He stopped. It was soft, but unmistakable. He glanced through the glass.
Your parents were there. Your mom perched carefully at the edge of the chair, your dad standing close, one hand resting gently on the bed rail. George leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but smiling, actually smiling. You were laughing. Not the fragile, polite smile you’d given the nurses. Not the guarded calm you’d shown him. This was real, eyes crinkling, shoulders shaking slightly, warmth lighting your face.
Dennis’s chest tightened painfully. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. He stayed in the hallway longer than he meant to, watching quietly, drinking in the sight of you alive in a way you hadn’t been since waking. It hurt, but it also felt like relief.
“She’s really laughing,” he whispered to himself.
He didn’t notice George glance toward the door until it was too late. Their eyes met through the glass. The smile faded from George’s face.
Later, Dennis was called into the ICU conference room. Dr. Garcia was explaining the details of your injuries, the surgery, the coma, the temporary amnesia. Your family listened carefully, expressions shifting between concern and relief.
“…and emotionally, recovery may take longer,” she concluded gently. “Given the circumstances.”
Your dad nodded slowly. Your mom wiped her eyes.
George’s gaze drifted toward Dennis again. After the meeting ended, George followed him into the hallway.
“You should’ve told us,” George said, voice tight.
“I–” Dennis froze.
“You knew she was here. You knew she was hurt. And you didn’t call us.” “I didn’t know how,” Dennis admitted quietly.
“You didn’t know how? She’s family. We deserved to be here from the start.” George’s anger flared.
“You’re right.” Dennis looked down, guilt settling heavily.
George shook his head, pacing once before turning back. “She almost died. You went through all of that alone? And we didn’t even know?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Dennis whispered. “I was just trying to keep her alive.”
“You don’t get to carry everything by yourself. Not when it comes to her.” George’s expression softened slightly, but frustration remained.
“I know.” Dennis nodded faintly.
George studied him more closely now–the hollowed cheeks, the exhausted posture, the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“You look terrible,” George muttered.
“I feel worse.” Dennis let out a humorless breath.
George’s anger wavered, replaced with something more complicated. “She smiled today,” he said quietly.
“I saw,” Dennis replied, voice soft. “You still love her.” George watched him for a long moment.
“Always.” Dennis didn’t hesitate.
The hallway fell quiet. Through the glass, you were still talking with your parents, your smile lingering. Dennis stood there, close enough to see you, but still on the outside, aching with every breath, holding onto the fragile hope that one day you might look at him and smile like that again.
He learned which hallways to take that didn’t pass your room. He traded shifts when he could. When he had to be in the ICU for consults, he kept his eyes down, charts clutched tightly in his hands like a shield. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see you. It was the opposite.
He wanted to see you so badly it felt like hunger, but every time he imagined you looking at him with that calm distance, that careful politeness, it hollowed him out all over again. So he stayed away, living on glimpses, checking the board for your name, asking nurses vague questions, standing at the far end of the corridor just to know you were still there. His routine became mechanical.
Work.
Breaks with photos.
Nighttime visits only when you slept.
Leave before you woke.
Repeat.
Then one afternoon, he was called up to the ICU for a patient with worsening labs. He didn’t realize how close the room was to yours until he turned the corner and stopped. You were standing. Not just sitting up in bed, not leaning against pillows, but standing, one hand lightly gripping the IV pole, the other hovering uncertainly near the wall. A physical therapist stood beside you, encouraging you softly.
“You’re doing great,” she said. “Just a few more steps.”
Dennis forgot how to breathe. You looked stronger, still pale, still careful, but upright. Alive in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. He should have turned around, but he didn’t. Your gaze drifted across the hallway and landed on him. For a second, neither of you moved. Then, softly, your face brightened. A real smile.
“…Denny?” you called.
The nickname hit him like a drug. You hadn’t called him that in years. Not since before things became complicated. Not since before feelings had sharpened and silence had broken you both. His knees nearly gave out. He grabbed the edge of the counter beside him, steadying himself as emotion flooded his chest too fast, too sudden. The world tilted. His vision blurred. You took a careful step toward him.
“Hey,” you said gently, like you were afraid he might disappear.
That was enough to snap him back into motion. He crossed the distance quickly, then slowed when he saw the slight wobble in your stance.
“Careful,” he murmured, reaching out instinctively.
You smiled again. It was smaller this time, but warm.
“I’m getting better,” you said.
“I can see that,” he whispered, voice trembling.
Before he could stop himself, he pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t gentle.It was desperate as arms wrapping around you like he needed to confirm you were solid, real, not another dream. He buried his face against your shoulder, breathing you in, shaking. Then he froze. You’d asked for space. He pulled back abruptly, hands hovering awkwardly as guilt rushed in.
“I–I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I shouldn’t have–” He was already crying.
Tears spilled freely, his composure collapsing in seconds.
“You… you smiled,” he said brokenly, like he couldn’t believe it. “You called me Denny.”
“I did.” You looked at him softly.
“I thought… I thought you didn’t want me near you,” he admitted, wiping at his face but failing. “I’ve been staying away. I didn’t want to make things worse.”
“You’ve been avoiding me?” Your expression faltered slightly.
“Yeah. I still come by when you’re asleep… I just–I didn’t want you to see me if you didn’t want to.” He nodded, embarrassed.
The confession sounded small, almost pathetic.
You studied him carefully and saw the weight he’d lost, the exhaustion, the way he looked like someone who hadn’t let himself hope in weeks.
“You look terrible,” you said quietly.
“That’s fair.” He let out a shaky laugh.
You shifted your grip on the IV pole, then tentatively reached out and touched his sleeve. The contact made him still completely.
“I didn’t mean I didn’t want you,” you said softly. “I just needed… time.”
“I know,” he whispered quickly. “I was trying to give it to you. I just… I missed you.” The vulnerability in his voice was raw.
“I missed you too.” You squeezed his sleeve gently.
“You… did?” His breath hitched.
You nodded. He looked like he might cry harder.
“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he admitted, voice quiet and shaky. “You smiling at me. Saying my name. I kept thinking… that was gone.”
“It’s not gone. ”You tilted your head slightly.
“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m being pathetic.” He laughed weakly, wiping his eyes again.
“A little,” you agreed gently.
“Yeah, that tracks.” He nodded, almost relieved.
You both stood there, the air between you softer now, fragile but warmer than before.
“You should sit,” he said suddenly, slipping back into concern. “You’re still recovering.”
“You always do that,” you murmured, amused.
“Do what?”
“Switch from emotional disaster to worried doctor in two seconds.”
“Occupational hazard.” He flushed faintly.
You took another small step, and he hovered beside you immediately, ready to catch you if needed. Not touching, but just close enough.
“Denny?” you said again.
He looked at you instantly.
“I’m… glad you didn’t stop caring,” you admitted.
“I couldn’t. I tried to give you space, but… I never stopped.” His voice broke.
You smiled softly and that small, simple expression nearly undid him all over again.
You made it back to the room with his help, the short walk clearly draining you, but you looked lighter somehow like seeing him had steadied something inside you. Dennis stayed close, hands hovering as you got back on the bed carefully. Once you were settled, he stepped back, unsure where to put himself now that the moment had softened. He shifted his weight, glancing at the floor, then at you, then away again. There was something he needed to say. He swallowed.
“About… Amy,” he started, voice tentative.
You watched him quietly, waiting. He ran a hand through his hair, already unraveling.
“I should’ve explained sooner. I should’ve explained that day when you… when you found out. I just– I panicked. I froze and then everything spiraled and I–”
“Dennis,” you said gently.
“Right. Sorry. I’m rambling.” He nodded quickly but kept rambling anyway.
“Her husband died,” he said, the words tumbling out. “Just before the baby was born. His name was Teddy. They were… they were high school sweethearts. Grew up together. Like us. Everyone knew them together. They were inseparable. Attached at the hip.”
Your expression softened. Dennis’s voice grew quieter.
“He used to do all the work on the farm. Fix the fences, manage the equipment, everything. And then suddenly she had… none of that. Just a newborn and acres of land she didn’t know how to keep running.” He looked down at his hands.
“I saw her one day trying to fix the irrigation pump by herself. She looked exhausted. And… I don’t know. I just saw you. Or… what you would’ve been if something like that happened to me.” Your chest tightened.
“She talked about him constantly,” he continued. “About how they grew up together. About how he used to walk her home. About how she didn’t know how to exist without him. And it… it reminded me of us. Of everything we had. Everything I was too scared to say out loud.” His voice cracked.
“So I helped. At first it was just once or twice. Then more. I wasn’t trying to replace him–I just didn’t want her drowning in it. I knew what it felt like to lose someone before you even really got the chance to… hold onto them.” You listened carefully, the pieces settling into place.
“And when I realized you thought… that the baby was mine…” He exhaled shakily. “God, I should’ve stopped it right there. I should’ve told you everything. But I didn’t. I just… stood there. Like an idiot.” He laughed weakly at himself.
“I talked to her after,” he added quickly. “After you left. I told her I couldn’t come around the farm anymore. That it hurt you. That I’d made a mess of everything. She understood. She said she didn’t want to be the reason I lost you.”
You frowned slightly.
“You… stopped helping her?”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
“Dennis… I never wanted that.” You shook your head slowly.
He blinked. “What?”
“I didn’t know the situation,” you said softly. “If I had known… I would’ve told you to keep helping her. She lost her husband. She has a baby. She needs support.”
His face fell in a complicated mix of emotions–pain, admiration, something almost reverent.
“You’re still… like this,” he whispered. “Like what?”
“Kind. Understanding. Bigger than the situation.” He swallowed. “It’s the girl I fell in love with.”
Your gaze softened, but you looked down, unsure what to say.
“You really think I should keep helping her?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “If she needs it. You were doing something good. I don’t want to be the reason someone else struggles.”
He stared at you, eyes shining with something fragile.
“You always put everyone else first,” he murmured.
“I just… don’t want anyone to hurt more than they already are.” You shrugged faintly.
His expression shifted–hurt threading through the warmth.
“I don’t want to take advantage of that,” he said softly.
“You’re not.” You looked up.
“But I could,” he admitted. “You’d let me. You’d tell me to go help her even if it hurt you. Even if you were still… trying to figure us out.”
He took a small step closer, voice quiet.
“I don’t want your big heart to cost you anything else. Especially not me.” The vulnerability in his words sat heavy between you.
“I’m not sacrificing anything,” you said gently. “I just… understand.”
“You always did.” He shook his head slightly, eyes lingering on you like he was memorizing every detail.
Silence stretched, soft but full.
“I don’t love her,” he added suddenly, like he needed you to hear it clearly. “It’s not like that. I never stopped loving you. Even when I was helping her, even when everything got messy… it was always you.”
Your breath caught faintly. He looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty.
“I just didn’t say it when I should’ve.”
You studied him, the tired eyes, the careful distance he was trying to maintain, the way he looked like he was afraid of hurting you again just by standing too close.
“You don’t have to punish yourself forever,” you murmured.
He gave a small, sad smile. “I’m not punishing myself. I just… don’t want to lose you again because I didn’t think things through.”
Your fingers rested lightly on the armrest, close to his hand but not quite touching.
“You won’t lose me,” you said.
He nodded, no longer able to speak. For the first time since everything had fallen apart, the misunderstanding that once tore you apart felt smaller, replaced by something fragile, hopeful, and painfully careful, like both of you were learning how to hold each other again without breaking.
The room fell into a quiet that felt almost sacred.
Dennis didn’t move right away. He stood beside you, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, like he was afraid even breathing too hard might break the fragile peace settling between you. His eyes kept drifting to your face, then away, then back again—like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t another moment that would dissolve the second he reached for it. He swallowed.
“Can I… ask something?” he said softly, voice almost shy. “You can ask me anything. ”You looked up at him, the gentleness in your expression making his chest ache.
He glanced at the hospital bed, then back at you. The request seemed to embarrass him before he even said it.
“Would it… be okay if I laid with you? Just… for a little bit. I won’t get in your way. I just… I think I need… I need to hold you.” There was something so small and vulnerable in the way he said it, like he expected you to say no and was already bracing himself.
“Come here.” You smiled softly.
The relief that crossed his face was immediate and almost overwhelming. His shoulders dropped, tension leaving him in one long breath.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
He moved slowly, deliberately, lowering the railing with careful hands. He glanced at you constantly, checking your comfort, making sure he wasn’t hurting you even before he touched you. Then he climbed onto the bed, shifting cautiously so the mattress barely dipped.
For a second, he just sat there beside you, uncertain. Then instinct took over. He curled toward you, sliding one arm around your torso, then the other, pulling you gently into him like he’d been waiting years to do it. His face tucked immediately into the crook of your neck, breath warm and shaky against your skin. The sound he made was barely audible, half exhale, half broken sigh.
“I missed this,” he whispered, voice muffled.
You wrapped your arm around his shoulders, careful but sure, and he tightened his hold in response, fingers gripping softly at your side like he was afraid you might disappear if he loosened them.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words spilling out again, softer now. “For everything. For freezing. For letting you walk away. For not telling you… I should’ve told you I loved you. I should’ve chased you. I should’ve–” His voice trembled, fading into quiet.
“I love you,” he whispered again. “I never stopped. Not for a second.”
He breathed you in deeply, like he was trying to memorize the scent of you. His nose brushed your neck slightly, and he let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh.
“You still smell the same,” he murmured. “Like… home.”
Your fingers found his hair. The second you started running them gently through it, he melted completely. His body softened against yours, the tension draining out of him all at once. His grip loosened just enough to become something more comfortable, more trusting.
“That feels… really good,” he whispered, voice already heavy with sleep.
You continued, slow and soothing, nails lightly grazing his scalp. He leaned into it unconsciously, pressing closer, his cheek resting fully against your shoulder now.
“You’re okay,” you murmured softly. “You can rest, Denny.”
He nodded faintly, barely awake. “Don’t… don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.
His breathing slowed, deepened. Each inhale grew steadier, each exhale warmer against your skin. His hand, still resting at your waist, relaxed fully, fingers uncurling like he’d finally let himself believe you were real. You kept stroking his hair, murmuring quiet reassurances even as his weight grew heavier with sleep.
“Thank you… for being here,” you whispered. “You waited. You stayed. I’m right here.”
He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened briefly, like some part of him heard you.
You watched him, heart softening at how peaceful he looked. The lines of worry that usually pulled at his face were gone. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his brow smooth. He looked younger somehow like the boy who used to sit beside you under the apple trees.
Your fingers slowed, still tangled gently in his hair.
Sleep tugged at you too, warmth wrapping around you both. The steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you, your own eyes growing heavy.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured one last time.
You drifted off with him curled against you, both of you tangled together, finally at peace.
Later, after shift change, Trinity walked quietly down the ICU hallway, scanning for him. She hadn’t seen Dennis sign out, and lately that meant he’d probably disappeared somewhere he shouldn’t be—skipping meals, forgetting time, sitting alone.
She nudged the door open gently and stopped.
Dennis was curled tightly against you, one arm wrapped around your waist, his face tucked into your neck like he’d burrowed there and refused to move. You were angled toward him, one hand still threaded through his hair, fingers resting softly like you’d fallen asleep mid-comfort.
Your legs were tangled slightly beneath the blanket, the IV line draped carefully to the side. Bear lay at the foot of the bed, chin resting on his paws, watching over both of you.
Trinity’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh,” she whispered, almost reverent.
He looked peaceful in a way she hadn’t seen in weeks. No tension, no exhaustion…just quiet relief. He clung to you like someone who had finally made it home after being lost for too long.
She carefully pulled out her phone.
Snap.
The photo caught everything–the curve of his arm around you, your fingers still in his hair, both of you tucked close together, the soft rise and fall of shared breathing.
She smiled to herself, a small, fond shake of her head.
“He’s gonna pretend to be mad,” she murmured. “But he’ll keep this forever.”
She dimmed the light slightly, making sure the room stayed peaceful. Bear’s tail thumped softly once, but he didn’t move.
Trinity slipped out quietly, leaving the door cracked just enough.
Inside, neither of you stirred, still wrapped together in warmth, comfort, and the quiet certainty that, after everything, you had finally found your way back to each other.
Summary: You’ve been admiring Robert from afar since you were kids, but always kept your distance because of your powers. Can a pair of intruders change everything?
Words: 4,042
Pairing: Robert Robertson III x afab!reader
Warning(s): Mild harm to the reader, slander against the reader mentioned
You tell yourself you’re not staring at Robert.
You fail spectacularly.
You don’t just stare- you track him like he’s magnetic and you’re made of loose scraps. It’s humiliating, really.
He’s walking a half-step ahead of you through the SDN HQ corridor, his hair doing that soft, ridiculous swoop over his forehead. The one that always looks like he accidentally stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
His gait is casual, almost weightless, but you’ve known him long enough to catch the tiny tells- the way his shoulders tense when he senses you’re deep in thought, the way his brows knit when he thinks you’re worrying again.
Every time he glances back to check if you’re still behind him, you pretend you were looking somewhere totally normal, like the wall, or the ceiling, or the fire suppression panel you have memorized down to the screws. Your stomach swoops like you’re stepping off a ledge.
It’s pathetic.
And you are painfully aware of it.
He slows down.
You force your lungs to move. You don’t want him to notice how tense you are. Not today.
“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Robert says, slowing just enough that your hands almost brush. “Is this a contemplative silence? A dramatic silence? Or a ‘Robert, you’re walking too fast and I don’t want to admit it’ silence?”
You shake your head quickly, too quickly.
“Just thinking.”
He raises one eyebrow, skeptical in the way only Robert can manage, soft, but impossibly perceptive.
“About?”
You refuse to answer. Because the real answer is you- the way your shoulders look like trouble in that shirt, the way your smile has been a permanent fixture in my brain since we were six, and the way I want to accidentally-on-purpose touch your arm but I’m terrified you’ll think I’m using my voice.
“Nothing important,” you say instead.
Robert makes a skeptical noise. “Sure.”
He doesn’t buy it. Of course he doesn’t. He’s known you since you were six and he’d fallen into a creek trying to impress you with his rock-skipping skills. You’d pulled him out by the collar and accidentally told him- commanded him- to stop shivering. He’d stopped instantly. And you had spent years pretending you didn’t remember that.
His shoulder bumps yours, light and warm, and you swallow hard. Your powers do absolutely nothing to help with whatever chemical disaster happens in your bloodstream when he’s this close.
You appreciate that he doesn’t push. You’re grateful. And guilty. Because what’s weighing on you is harder to explain than exhaustion.
It’s the noise.
The constant noise.
Earlier this morning, you’d tried to slip past the crowd of reporters unnoticed, hood up, sunglasses on. You weren’t using your voice. You weren’t even humming. You were doing everything you could to appear boring, normal, decidedly non-hypnotic.
They still swarmed you.
You didn’t tell the others. You never tell the others.
Especially not Robert.
Because the last thing you want is to give him- or any of them- the idea that the tabloids might have planted in their heads: that maybe the camaraderie they feel around you is manufactured, that maybe you’re making them like you, trust you, rely on you.
You aren’t. But they don’t know that.
And the reporters won’t stop suggesting it.
They shout things like:
“Give the public a demonstration, sweetheart! Tell me to bark like a dog!”
“If you’re not controlling them, prove it.”
“Why do you think Robertson’s always near you?”
“Blink twice if she’s got you under her spell!”
You want to scream. Literally. You want to rip open the air with a supersonic blast and watch their microphones shatter like frozen glass.
Instead you swallowed everything down, shoulders tight, and walked away.
But the words lodged under your ribs like shrapnel.
Robert’s brows pull together in concern, the same look he had when you scraped your knees falling off his bike at age ten and he insisted on carrying you home even though you only lived three houses away.
You force a smile, a weak, brittle thing.
He holds the door for you as you enter the break room, and warm light spills over him, catching the bronze flecks scattered in the deep brown of his eyes. You pretend you don’t notice. You always pretend you don’t notice- because you cannot afford to want anything too loudly.
Not with your powers. Not with him.
Not when the tabloids have spent the last three months calling you The SDN Siren like it’s a slur, acting like every polite nod or diplomatic victory is secretly mind-control.
The moment Robert steps in, he is greeted with a chorus of:
“Rooobert!”
“Bobby boy!”
“Tell me you finally beat your pathetic punching bag record!”
Then you walk in behind him- and the tone changes. Several heads turn, like wolves scenting a fresh weakness.
“You missed the reporters again.” Flambae says, mug still raised to his lips.
Your pulse spikes. “What?”
“They were screaming your name an hour ago,” Malevola says from beside the microwave. “Really persistent today. Something about mind-controlling the mayor? And maybe seducing half the SDN?”
You groan into your hands, a nervous habit unintentionally picked up from Robert.
Flambae smirks. “Hey, at least they think you’re powerful. They’re terrified you’ll make us all fall in love with you.”
You shoot him a look so sharp it could peel paint.
Punch Up laughs. “Terrified or jealous- hard to tell with the press.”
Robert steps in front of you so fast it steals your breath- an unconscious, protective movement.
“She’s not manipulating anyone.”
The room goes dead quiet.
He said it so quickly. So firmly. Like it wasn’t even a question.
Robert’s ears turn pink. “I’m stating a fact. She doesn’t use her powers like that.”
Punch Up raises his brows. “Do the tabloids know that?”
Your stomach twists.
You didn’t tell them anything.
You didn’t tell them what the reporters said. Or how harshly they said it.
Or how a cameraman called you a walking hazard with a pretty face.
You glance at Robert.
He gives you that soft, unbearably tender look, the one that makes your heart ache in places you try very, very hard to ignore.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Seriously. If something’s wrong-”
The worst part?
You want to tell him.
You want him to put a hand on your back and promise none of it matters. You want him to stand between you and the reporters and glare them into the pavement. You want the world to stop whispering that you might have stolen his affection with a single, accidental note.
But you can’t tell him.
You can’t risk making him think even for a second that something about your friendship- your almost-something- is built on a lie.
So you lie instead.
“I’m fine.”
Everyone looks unconvinced.
Robert gives you one of his small, skeptical smiles. “Uh-huh.”
Robert steps a half-inch closer to you- so subtle no one else seems to notice, but you feel his warmth like a blanket you didn’t know you needed.
“What happened this morning?” he asks softly.
You swallow. Hard.
Nothing happened, you want to say.
Everything happened, you almost say.
They cornered me - they shouted at me- they asked if you were under my spell- they asked me to prove I wasn’t manipulating you- they said you weren’t safe with me-
Instead, you say: “Nothing.”
Malevola hums thoughtfully, tapping her fingers together. “Well, whatever happened, it’s clearly upset you.” Her eyes slide between you and Robert. “And Robert cares. A lot. Enough to be defensive on your behalf.”
Robert turns crimson.
“I’m just stating facts,” he mutters.
Malevola smirks. “Sweetheart. That’s not facts. That’s devotion.”
Robert nearly combusts.
You nearly do, too.
Flambae gives a lazy little wave of his fingers. “Alright, lovebirds. Go be flustered and repressed somewhere else. Some of us are trying to enjoy our coffee without choking on secondhand yearning.”
Waterboy cackles. Sonar doesn’t even look up, but his eyebrow twitches, which is basically a belly laugh for him.
Robert clears his throat so hard it sounds painful. “We- we weren’t- okay, you know what? We’re leaving.”
You’re already backing toward the door.
He follows you out with a speed that would be comical if your heart weren’t hammering so violently.
The door swings shut behind you, sealing off the teasing, the laughter, the scrutiny, leaving you and Robert alone in the quieter corridor. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead; the hum of distant machinery thrums beneath the floor.
You take a breath.
It barely scratches the panic.
Robert walks beside you, one hand hovering like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure he’s allowed. You’re too aware of him- how warm his body feels even inches away, how he glances over at you every few steps like he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away too long.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You know… you don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words almost stop your heart.
You keep walking.
Because if you stop, you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and if you look him in the eyes, you’ll want things you’re terrified of wanting. Things you’re afraid to even think too loudly.
You know how fragile your voice can be. How easy it would be to tip from speaking to influencing.
Robert’s steps slow until you’re matching pace again. His shoulder brushes yours, not an accident. Not this time.
“You can talk to me,” he murmurs.
You swallow. “Robert-”
“It’s just… you looked scared earlier.”
Your chest tightens sharply.
You weren’t scared of the reporters, not really.
You were scared of what they implied. Scared he might someday believe it.
Scared of the possibility that the person you’ve loved quietly for years might think he only loves you because your voice nudged him toward it.
“Robert,” you repeat, softer. “I said I’m fine.”
He frowns, slowing to a stop in the hallway. You stop, too, because you always do when he does.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I can’t,” you whisper, almost too quietly for sound.
His brows knit. “Why not?”
Because I don’t want you to doubt anything real between us. Because I don’t want you to think I’m dangerous. Because I don’t want to hurt you. Because you matter too much.
Because I love you.
You open your mouth- and the hallway lights flicker.
Robert’s head snaps up.
“Did you see-?”
You hear it before he does.
A sharp, unnatural clang echoes from deeper in the HQ- metal against metal, not part of any SDN machinery you’ve learned to filter out. The vibration bites at the edge of your senses, sending the faintest itch across your eardrums.
Something is wrong.
Your breath catches. “Robert.”
He hears it now too. His posture changes instantly- shoulders squared, stance ready, eyes alert.
Then-
A heavy, grinding metallic groan tears down the corridor from the direction of the secured lab.
Robert’s hand finds your arm without thinking when the reinforced door at the end of the hallway explodes inward.
Shards of metal and sparks spray across the tiles.
The intruder rounds the corner, clad in dark armor, face obscured, weapon raised. The air crackles with the electric threat of violence, metallic and cold. Your instincts flare before your mind can process- before Robert even has a chance to tell you to stay back.
You step forward, voice instinctively rising. Just a whisper at first, but it spreads, wrapping around the intruder like invisible chains.
“Stop.”
The word isn’t gentle. It resonates in your chest, shivers through your throat, curls in the air. And it works. The intruder jerks mid-step, weapon trembling in his hands. You push harder, tone growing, not singing, just commanding, just letting it out.
“Down!”
The figure collapses forward, knees buckling, dropping the weapon with a loud clang. Sparks scatter as it hits the floor.
The first intruder groans on the floor, struggling to rise, dazed and momentarily helpless. You know better than to give him the time to recover. One step forward, eyes narrowing, you push your voice again, higher, sharper- a note slicing through the air like glass. It’s enough to make him scream, clutch his ears, stumble backward, retreating like a marionette cut loose.
You barely notice Robert reaching for the weapon he dropped. Your focus is fixed, your senses stretching, tracking every micro-movement, every twitch in the enemy’s body.
Then, a new presence.
You spin, and the hairs on your neck stand up. Another figure, taller, more deliberate. Black tactical armor, but this one wears thick ear protection, a helmet with electronic sound-blocking gear. Your voice, your powers, all your carefully honed commands- nothing.
Robert moves instinctively in front of you, shifting into a defensive stance.
“You’re not going to get to him,” you hiss, but you know your voice is useless here.
The second intruder lunges. Robert reacts instantly, parrying with his own body’s training- precise, swift. But this one isn’t just a brute; he’s calculated. He swings a metal baton, aimed to incapacitate.
You step in, your mind racing. You can’t reach him with sound. But you can force air, manipulate vibrations. A supersonic screech tears from your throat, raw and unrefined, aimed not to control but to disorient. The corridor reverberates, lights flicker, and the intruder stumbles, just long enough for Robert to dodge a swing aimed at his ribs.
“Behind you!” you scream, heart hammering.
Robert pivots, catching the baton with a forearm, twisting, and finally striking back. You dive to the side, winded, and feel every pulse of sound you just unleashed as if it ran through your own bones.
The intruder recovers quickly, relentless.
Ear protection doesn’t stop the kinetic vibration of your voice; it just dulls it.
You grab a discarded pipe from the floor- a cold, heavy, perfect lever- and swing.
The metal clangs against the intruder’s armor. He snarls and spins, and your muscles scream in response, matching his movement with precise, careful strikes. Every step you take is calculated to keep him off-balance, every hit aimed at creating an opening, not injuring beyond what’s necessary.
Robert moves with you in perfect synchrony, like you’ve danced this dangerous choreography together a thousand times. You glance at him- sweat streaking his temple, eyes focused but always flicking to yours, checking, silent communication in a glance.
“Robert, now!” you shout, pushing your last audible command toward the first intruder. Even in his stunned state, the word makes him hesitate, creating the millisecond you need.
Robert lunges forward, taking down the second intruder with a trained throw, knocking him against the wall. The baton clatters across the floor.
Both attackers are on the ground now- one groaning, one out of commission. The hallway is thick with the smell of ozone, sweat, and fear. You’re trembling, chest heaving, every nerve raw, every instinct on edge.
You barely have time to catch your breath before a third threat materializes- a glint of metal, a flash from the corner. A gun, aimed at Robert’s chest.
Time slows. Every muscle screams at you to move, to react. Your eyes lock on the barrel. Your brain screams no, no, no- but instincts take over.
You shove Robert to the side, hard. His startled grunt is swallowed by the sharp report of the gun.
The bullet strikes you. Pain explodes along your side, searing, hot and bright. You stumble, air leaving your lungs in a ragged gasp, fingers clawing at the wall for balance.
Robert is on his feet instantly, spinning back around, eyes wide, horror breaking over his face. “No! No, no, no-”
You can’t breathe. Pain riots under your skin. Your vision doubles and blurs.
Robert scrambles to your side, hands on you before you can even think, eyes scanning, frantic. “Stay with me! Stay with me!”
You try to speak, to tell him you’re fine, but your mouth won’t form the words. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as your vision narrows to a tunnel, the edges bleeding into darkness.
“Don’t you dare- stay with me!” Robert shouts, panic sharp and slicing through the haze. You feel him cradle your head, his body pressing close, grounding you, but the warmth is distant, unreachable.
The next thing you know, everything goes black.
When your eyes open, it’s to a softer, steadier light. The hum of machinery is rhythmic and controlled, not the chaotic buzz of the hallway. You’re lying in a medical bed, sheets tucked carefully around you. Your side aches, a deep, unrelenting throb, and every breath sends sparks of fire through your ribs.
Robert is there, sitting close, one hand on yours, the other brushing hair back from your forehead. His eyes are red-rimmed, tired, but relieved. Relief and something else- something warm and hard to name- gleams in his gaze.
“You’re awake,” he says softly, voice hoarse.
You try to smile, but the motion sends a fresh wave of pain through your side. You settle for blinking up at him, throat raw, body heavy and uncooperative.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers, squeezing your hand gently. “Do you know how close that was?”
“I… I’m fine,” you rasp, though the lie tastes bitter even as it leaves your lips.
You try to sit up. He moves instinctively, placing a firm hand on your shoulder.
“Don’t push yourself,” he murmurs.
You exhale shallowly, letting your body sag back against the pillow, every nerve screaming. You don’t look at him. Not yet. Because if you do, you will break.
You feel the silence stretching, heavy, thick, full of all the things he isn’t saying. Finally, he does.
“You jumped in front of me.”
It’s not a question.
You stare at the ceiling tiles instead.
“Why would you do that?” His voice is low, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “Why would you- why would you risk yourself like that?”
Your throat feels raw and dry, your tongue thick, words stuck. You don’t want to answer. You don’t want to let instinct slip and accidentally command anything.
He leans closer. Closer enough that you feel the warmth of him without touching.
“Talk to me.”
You flinch. He sees it. And the corner of his mouth tightens, that little crease of worry forming in the middle of his face, the expression you’ve memorized since childhood.
“Hey,” he says softly, “I’m not asking because I’m angry. I’m asking because I’m scared.”
Your chest tightens.
He shifts onto the edge of the med bay bed, close enough that you feel the warmth of his knee brushing yours. He lowers his voice even further, each word measured, careful.
“I know you’re careful. I know you hold yourself back. I know you try not to use your powers unless you absolutely have to.” His eyes search yours. “But why won’t you talk to me?”
You exhale shakily.
He waits.
And waits.
And that patience- that infuriating, gentle patience- breaks something open in you. The dam you’ve been holding tight for years shudders.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
“I don’t want to control you.”
He freezes.
You keep going, because if you stop, you won’t start again.
“I don’t want to influence you, or make you like me, or want me, or- or anything. I can’t risk that with you. Not you.” Your hands tremble in your lap. “Every time I open my mouth, I’m terrified something will slip and you won’t even realize I changed something in you. The tabloids already think I-”
You bite down hard on the last words, but he hears them anyway.
“...the tabloids,” he repeats quietly, almost to himself.
You nod, shame twisting your stomach into knots.
Robert inhales slowly, a deep, controlled pull of air, like he’s trying not to let anger ignite too fast, like he’s collecting himself to stay steady for you.
“Show me.”
You blink, confused. “What?”
“Show me what they’re saying.”
You hesitate. He doesn’t move. Just holds out his hand.
Reluctantly- painfully- you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out your phone. You scroll to the latest article you’d been obsessively avoiding showing him. Every headline a knife, every rumor a weight pressing into your chest. You hand it to him.
He reads it, his expression hardening with each sentence, each lie, each insinuation.
SIREN SEDUCTION: IS ROBERT ROBERTSON HER NEXT CONTROLLED PET?
He reads the article in full, every invented rumor, every claim that your friendship is a web of manipulation. Every accusation that you’re somehow twisting him, shaping him, holding him captive with your powers.
When he finishes, he sets the phone face-down beside you.
Several seconds pass in silence. You hold your breath, bracing for judgment, for disgust, for distance.
Instead, he says, softly “Look at me.”
You do.
And the look in his eyes is nothing like what you feared.
“Do you really think I’d mistake your voice for my feelings?” he asks gently.
Your breath shakes. “I don’t know. I can’t know. That’s the problem.”
He shakes his head, just once, with a firmness you rarely see from him.
“I’ve known you my entire life. I know exactly how you sound when you’re using your power. And I know how you sound when you’re just you.” He reaches for your hand. Slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure.
“And I’ve liked you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “for a very long time. Long before I even understood what your powers were. Long before either of us had any idea what we’d grow into.”
Your heart stutters violently, threatening to escape your chest.
He leans closer.
“You didn’t make me love you,” he murmurs. “You couldn’t. I’m too stubborn.”
The word “love” lands in your chest like a struck bell, resonant and terrifying.
You swallow. “Robert-”
“No.” He shakes his head again, gently but firmly. “You need to hear this. And I need to say it.”
His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, grounding circles.
“You didn’t make me feel anything I didn’t already feel. And if you ever used your power by accident, I would know. I promise you that. I know you. I’ve always known you.”
Your eyes sting, not from the pain in your side, but from relief so sharp it might as well have been a blade.
His voice softens even more. “You saved my life today. But you don’t have to save me from loving you. That’s mine. I chose that. I keep choosing it.”
Your breath comes out in broken, uneven gasps.
“I was terrified I’d steal your choice,” you murmur.
He lifts your hand and presses his forehead to it.
“You didn’t,” he murmurs against your skin. “You never have.”
You feel something warm drip onto your knuckles.
It takes you a second to realize it’s one of his tears.
You reach up with your free hand- the one not wrapped in bandages- and cup his cheek. He leans into it like he’s been waiting years for you to touch him this way.
“I want to be with you,” he says simply. “Not because of anything you say. Not because of what you can do. But because I like who I am when I’m around you. And I like who you are.” His gaze catches yours with breathtaking clarity. “And I want you. Exactly the way you already are.”
The dam inside you breaks.
You lean forward. He meets you halfway.
Your foreheads touch first.
Then your nose brushes his.
Then- after a long, trembling pause where you both breathe the same small air- his lips press to yours.
Soft. Steady. Certain.
The kiss is not a command. It’s not an influence. It’s not your power.
It's a choice.
His. Yours. Both.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.
“Let me stay with you tonight,” he whispers.
You close your eyes. You don’t command. You don’t ask. You just whisper back:
“Okay.”
And for the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of your own voice.
Holy shit, you didn’t think you’d meet a real Y/N in the wild until a new recruit joined the team.
“She just said she’s 4’11 to L.T,” Johnny whispers to you as he stood besides you, staring at the recruit while she toyed with the front ends of her hair, bashing her lashes and (trying to) engage in a conversation with Simon.
Simon stood there, glaring down at her; and even though you can’t see his expression, you can tell he was clearly bothered by the way his shoulders tensed and how he hid his hands in his pockets.
“I thought front layers weren’t allowed…” you murmured to Johnny. Slowly, you reached up to pat your front layers, which was slicked back with who knows how much gel was needed.
He snorts in response and gives you a side eye, “yeah— but that’s ‘cus Laswell just hasn’t seen her yet,” he replies before going back to staring at the two.
You’d think this was a pick me… By definition, it is. But no, this character was far more worse than that. Too bad there isn’t a CEO to coddle her and throw anyone out if they looked at her funny. “How’d she even pass basic training?” you whisper in awe, watching as she struggles to grab a disposable cup from one of the higher cabinets.
Simon stood besides her, watching as she stood on her tippy toes and struggled to reach before he slowly turns around to face you and Johnny with a look of: ‘is she dead serious right now’.
“bloody ‘ell, mate! Help the lass!” Johnny teases with a grin, stuffing his hands in his jeans while giving Simon a smirk.
Simon just stared blankly at Johnny before slowly turning back to the girl. He has yet spoken to her— and you’re positively sure that he won’t be speaking to her any time soon. “Please, Lieutenant, can you grab this for me?” the girl asks with a pout. He doesn’t respond and instead, takes a step back and opens up a lower cabinets before pointing at the several disposable cups in there.
Just before you or Johnny could react, Kyle steps into the room with a heavy sigh, “have y’ seen where Laswell put the new shipments? For the armory,” he asks, leaning against the doorway.
Johnny looks over at his friend and briefly nods before walking out with him. Just as you were about to follow, the woman says something that made you raise an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
Because apparently, the real Y/N never seems to know Kyle.
part two bc i love writing about y/n (i hope her ceo bf doesn’t find me)
Kyle as the mob’s rising star and golden child, where you’re an undercover cop that’s infiltrated the organization’s ranks. He figures you out pretty quickly, but you’re more mouse than rat in his eyes, so he keeps your identity to himself and lets you prod tidbits of information out of him. Dangling meeting locations and shipment schedules in front of you, he makes himself out to be a valuable target for you to get close to. And the two of you do get close.
There’s nothing Kyle enjoys more than watching your internal struggle when you’re with him—the guilt and sense of duty and desire clashing behind your see-through facade. When you quietly suggest staying in bed instead of joining tonight’s meeting at the docks, he pretends to debate it until you almost outright tell him about the raid that’s going to happen. He’s never been more in love.
The boss manages to evade arrest that night, but the family realizes that there’s a traitor in their midst. Most of the higher-ups have had suspicions of a rat for a while, but Kyle so far has been deflecting their efforts to find the traitor and redirecting them elsewhere. With this latest incident, though, he knows it’s time to take more drastic action.
A pointed suggestion, a whispered complaint, flattery, trickery, intimidation—Kyle rearranges the world until there’s an irresistible opportunity for another raid and places the information in your lap to pass along to your contacts on the force.
And when that raid happens, with clever sabotage lying in wait, there are several casualties on both sides. The boss winds up dead and so do his lieutenants and even your handlers, the only people who know you’re an officer of the law. In the midst of the chaos, when you’re standing over the bodies, stunned at all that’s gone wrong, and your colleagues in blue are firing shots at you, Kyle leads you away from it all.
At his safehouse, he stitches your wounds and holds you tenderly when you confess to who you really are, despairing that you’ll be forever branded as a killer and not a cop. You expect him to take vengeance against you for your betrayal, but he just smiles and wipes a streak of blood off of your cheek with his thumb.
Because Kyle’s true allegiance was never to this organization. He had infiltrated them too in order to destroy a longstanding enemy of the Price family from within. And now that you have no one else to turn to, he’ll make sure you’re welcomed into his real family—as long as you stay by his side, of course.
The underground base hummed with a low, constant vibration—generators, air scrubbers, distant footsteps echoing through reinforced corridors. The place smelled of cold concrete, recycled air, oil, and the faint sting of gun lubricant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in a tired, grey glow.
Y/n hissed quietly. “Oh, fuck…”
She bit her lip and glared down at the mission summary on the table. A thin line of red welled up where the paper had snapped across her finger. Just a sting. Nothing compared to what she’d seen topside.
Ryder leaned sideways in his chair, eyes tracking her hand. “You alright there, killer?”
“I’ll live.” She flicked her hand like she could shake the sting off.
“Yeah, well, don’t put alcohol on it. Or you’ll scream like last time.” Ryder grinned.
“Oh, shut up.” Y/n shoved his shoulder lightly, smirking.
Boots scraped against concrete as another figure sat down at the far end of the table, sliding a stack of classified folders in front of him. The air seemed to shift—less noise, more focus.
Y/n lifted her eyes. “Sergeant.”
Ryder immediately bolted upright and saluted. “Sergeant Russ.” He elbowed Y/n so hard her chair creaked.
Keegan didn’t look up from the intel maps he was sorting through.
“At ease,” he muttered—calm, bored, and completely uninterested in the dramatics.
Ryder dropped back into his chair with exaggerated relief.
Y/n ignored them both and returned to the mission report—the same one that had sliced her fingertip. They had blown the supply convoy yesterday, and most of it had gone up exactly like planned. Except for the two trucks that managed to break through the first set of explosives.
Those two had vanished into the dust and smoke.
Into Federation territory.
Y/n hated that.
“Why didn’t you salute him?” Ryder whispered, leaning so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“Because he told me not to bother.” She kept reading, scanning the ammunition expenditure. They’d gone through way too many rounds to still lose vehicles.
Ryder blinked at her. “He told you that?”
“Yeah.”
Ryder snorted loudly. “Bullshit. I’ve never heard him talk to anyone except Riley.”
Y/n glanced up at Keegan, hoping for the smallest nod of confirmation. Nothing. He didn’t even flick an eye upward. Like they were ghosts in the same room as him.
It bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
“He really did,” she insisted.
“Sure he did.” Ryder clapped her on the back, chuckling. “Next you’ll tell me he reads you bedtime stories.”
Y/n rolled her eyes. “He talks to me.”
That actually made Ryder laugh—an honest, loud one that echoed in the concrete room.
Across the table, Keegan let out the faintest exhale through his nose. Not a laugh—more like a sound of restrained patience. The only indication he was aware of them at all.
Ryder stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m grabbing chow. You coming, or you wanna sit in silence with Sergeant Sunshine here?”
Y/n found her eyes drifting to Keegan again. The man was a statue—quiet, unreadable, flipping through intel like the world depended on it. Which, technically, it did.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t say a word.
Typical.
She sighed, stood, and shoved her hands into her pockets. “Yeah… I’ll come with you. There’s nothing else for me to do anyway.”
They walked side by side toward the corridor, boots tapping in rhythm on the cool concrete floor. Y/n cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the table they’d left behind. Keegan hadn’t moved, still hunched slightly over the paperwork, shadows cutting sharp lines across his face under the fluorescent lights.
For a moment, she wondered if he even realized she’d been there.
But just as she turned to follow Ryder out, Keegan spoke—low, barely more than a breath.
“You left your report.”
Y/n froze.
He still didn’t look at her, just tapped a gloved finger on the page she’d abandoned.
She swallowed.
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
He gave the smallest nod. Nothing more.
She jogged back, grabbed the paper, and then hurried to catch up with Ryder in the hallway.
Behind her, Keegan had already returned to silence.
Ryder slowed until Y/n caught up with him, brows furrowed in confusion.
“When did he tell you that you didn’t have to salute him?” he asked, tilting his head like he genuinely couldn’t imagine such a scenario.
Y/n’s stomach twisted strangely—not nerves exactly, but something unsettled. She shrugged.
“Uh… doesn’t matter.”
“Nah, girl, come on.” Ryder nudged her ribs with an elbow. “If he said that to you, then maybe I can get away with skipping a few salutes myself.” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.
Y/n snorted under her breath. “I don’t think it works like that. I just… know him, I guess? We talk sometimes. I work late. His office is right by mine.”
Ryder blinked like he was trying to imagine such a thing. “I wanna see that. Man hardly says two words unless it’s an order. Guy’s a ghost even when he’s standing right next to you.”
“He calls me doll and sweetheart,” Y/n said casually.
Ryder’s boots scraped to a stop. “Really?”
He eyed her like she’d just told him she’d befriended a wild bear.
“You’re not one all the time,” he added dryly.
Y/n froze mid-step. Slowly turned. Hands on hips.
“Take that back.”
Ryder only grinned, wide and unrepentant, before ruffling her hair like she was a kid sister.
She smacked his arm away, straightening her hair with an irritated huff. “I should knock you out for that.”
“It was a joke!” he protested, palms up. “Alright, alright—you wanna be mad? Race you to the mess.”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before Y/n sprinted forward.
Boots hammered against the concrete flooring, the air in the hallway rushing past her ears. The signs for MEDICAL, ARMORY, and MESS HALL blurred by as she cut corners at full speed. Ryder thundered after her somewhere behind.
They were neck-and-neck until she rounded a blind turn and nearly plowed straight into a cluster of privates. She skidded to slow, muttering a quick apology as she dodged around them.
Ryder didn’t bother with finesse. He grabbed her collar, yanked her backward, and barreled past her with a triumphant shout.
“Cheater!” she yelled, pushing herself up and surging after him.
She barely got three steps before a hand closed around her elbow—firm, controlled, unmistakably intentional.
Before she could react, she was pulled sideways into a side room off the hall. The door clicked shut behind her. The motion sensor lights flicked on with a soft buzz.
Her heart jumped—but the second she saw who it was, she relaxed.
“Keegan!” She flashed him a breathless grin. “Sorry—kinda in the middle of something.”
The sergeant stood with his arms crossed over his chest, posture solid and unreadable. His mask muted whatever expression he might’ve worn, but his tone made up for it—quiet, steady, and definitely not amused.
“Why are you running through base like a hurricane?” His voice was low, with that calm edge he always had when he was calling someone out without raising his tone.
Y/n bounced slightly on her heels, still riding the adrenaline.
“Racing Ryder,” she explained. “Pretty sure he’s won by now.”
Keegan stared at her for a beat. Not angry—just assessing her like she was a malfunctioning piece of equipment that needed recalibration. The silence stretched, heavy and typical.
The room felt smaller than it had a moment ago, the concrete walls pulling in closer, shadows dulling the fluorescent lights overhead. Y/n’s pulse was still elevated from running, but now a different kind of tension crept beneath her skin—uneasy, heavy.
Keegan’s posture was off. Not dramatically, not something the average soldier would even notice. But Y/n had spent enough late nights in adjoining offices and enough quiet briefings and after-action reports with him to recognize the difference.
His arms were still folded, but his shoulders weren’t loose. They were locked tight, rigid under his gear. His jaw shifted once, a tiny tic she’d never seen from him. Something was eating at him.
“You okay, Keegan?” she asked softly.
Her voice echoed faintly in the concrete room, carried on the hum of the ventilation system. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air between them.
He didn’t answer right away.
He looked at her—finally—but it wasn’t the steady, unreadable look she was used to. His eyes flickered, unsettled, like he was holding two thoughts and neither were something he wanted to say out loud.
“I’m fine.” The words were too quick, clipped. He shook his head once, eyes darting to the door as if he suddenly couldn’t stand being in the room. “Yeah… yeah, sweetheart. You just go play with your friends now.”
He said it too sharply.
Too dismissive.
Too unlike him.
Before she could respond, he stepped past her, hand brushing the door latch. He didn’t look back. The door opened, spilling the colder corridor air into the room, and he walked out with long, unhurried strides—the kind that looked controlled but felt like retreat.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Y/n stood frozen, breath caught halfway in her chest. The silence that followed felt loud.
Keegan Russ had never snapped at her. Ever. Not once. He teased sometimes—dry, deadpan remarks under his breath. He shut down nonsense when it interfered with missions. But he had never dismissed her. Never talked to her like that.
The way his voice had dipped, the faint tremor under the usual calm, the twitch in his jaw…
Something was wrong.
And for the first time since she’d met him, Y/n realized she couldn’t even guess what.
She swallowed, the back of her throat tight, and stepped slowly toward the door. Out in the corridor, she could still hear the faint echoes of boots moving through the underground base. Distant orders. Metallic clinks from the armory. Ryder shouting something far down the hall, clueless and cheerful.
But Keegan’s absence pressed harder than his presence ever had.
Y/n leaned against the wall for a moment, grounding herself against the cold concrete.
What the hell was that?
The hallway outside the small room felt even colder than before—air vent currents whispering along the concrete, carrying the metallic scent of oil and disinfectant. Y/n stepped out slowly, letting the door click shut behind her. Her boots echoed sharp and hollow against the reinforced flooring.
She rubbed her elbow where Keegan had grabbed her, then immediately felt stupid for doing it. It wasn’t like he’d hurt her—just startled her. Still, something about the encounter sat wrong, like grit buried beneath her skin.
She made her way down the corridor toward the mess, passing a few soldiers heading the opposite direction. Most had the same exhausted look—dark circles, stiff posture, dried mud or soot on their boots from time topside. The war never really left anyone here; it followed them down into the bunker like a shadow.
Ryder was waiting just outside the mess-hall doors, leaning against the frame with a smug grin. As soon as he spotted her, he pushed off the wall and gave her shoulder a playful shove.
“Took you long enough! I beat your ass fair and square.”
Y/n forced a smile, the corners of her mouth twitching unconvincingly. “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your victory.”
He didn’t notice the flatness in her tone at first. Ryder was Ryder—loud, cheerful, always riding the adrenaline leftover from every mission.
Inside, the mess was dim and loud—clattering trays, tired voices, and the hum of industrial refrigerators. The food line smelled like overboiled vegetables and reheated protein powder. Standard military cuisine.
They grabbed trays and moved through the line. Dinner only came in one option tonight: dried-out chicken breast, stringy green beans, and chunky mashed potatoes that looked like they’d been scooped from a bucket.
Ryder dug in the second they hit the table, inhaling his food like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Man, that op was fun as hell,” he said through a mouthful. “Setting those charges? Did you see that second truck flip? God, I wish someone filmed it—it would’ve made a killer highlight reel.”
Y/n pushed her fork into the chicken, then set it back down. The texture—rubbery, powdery—made her throat tighten. The beans looked sad. The potatoes looked worse. Normally she’d shovel it down anyway, but tonight everything felt off. Even swallowing felt like it’d take effort.
Ryder’s fork slowed. He finally looked at her properly.
“You’re awful quiet. What’s up?”
Y/n shrugged, staring at her tray. “Nothing. Someone just… snapped at me. Didn’t like it, I guess.”
Ryder frowned, straightening a little. “Someone? Or someone specific?”
“I said it’s nothing.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
He wanted to pry—she could see it in the way his jaw tightened. But instead, he looked between her untouched food and her expression, then seemed to make a decision.
Without a word, Y/n slid her tray toward him.
He blinked. “You serious?”
She nodded once.
Ryder hesitated. The guilt was visible, but not enough to overcome his appetite. “You’re sure? I mean… I don’t wanna steal your dinner.”
“Go ahead,” she muttered. “Not hungry.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He dug in again, but softer this time, watching her between bites.
After a few minutes, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You wanna do something fun after this? Get your mind off whatever’s chewing on you?”
Y/n exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I… yeah, that’d be good.”
Ryder grinned, the kind of grin that promised trouble. “I got something fun in my barracks. We can take it outside."
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“You’ll love it,” he said, smirking. “Trust me.”
“That makes me trust you even less.”
He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. Wounded. But you’re still coming.”
Y/n shook her head, the shadow of a real smile tugging at her lips.
But even as she followed Ryder out of the mess, her thoughts drifted—pulled like a magnet back to that room, that cold tone, that twitch beneath Keegan’s calm.
Something was wrong with him.
And it had gotten under her skin more than she wanted to admit.
Ryder’s barracks were three corridors down, the two of them moving through the bunker’s dimly lit hallways. The deeper they walked, the colder the air became—underground ventilation pushing a constant draft along the walls. Y/n kept her hands tucked into the sleeves of her uniform, thoughts still tangled around Keegan’s sudden mood swing.
Ryder rambled beside her, hands waving animatedly as he talked about some “surprise” he’d stashed away, but his voice eventually faded into background noise. Y/n’s attention pulled elsewhere—down a side hallway, where movement caught her eye.
A tall figure in familiar gear stepped out of a storage room and toward one of the exits.
Keegan.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked like he needed distance from everything.
Y/n stopped mid-step.
Ryder nearly bumped into her. “Whoa—hey, what’s up?”
She tore her eyes from the side hall and looked at him. “I, uh… I need to talk to someone.” She jerked her chin toward the hallway. “If you wait for me outside, I’ll meet you there in a bit.”
Ryder squinted at her. “How long’s this talk gonna take?”
“Don’t know.” She began walking backward, shrugging at him. “Just wait. I’ll find you.”
Before he could argue, she turned and jogged down the side corridor, boots thudding softly against concrete.
Keegan was already halfway up a metal staircase that led to an upper level—one of the access routes to the outside airlocks. The stairwell was narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb overhead, casting sharp shadows across his shoulders.
Y/n slowed, keeping a few steps behind him. She didn’t want to look like she was stalking him… even though she kind of was.
He didn’t look back.
When he reached the top, she waited until he disappeared from the landing before climbing after him, her breath slightly quick from the jog. The upper hallway was even colder, the air smelling faintly of damp earth and pine from the surface.
A heavy door at the end of the hall swung shut with a metallic groan—closing a second too slowly to be anything but recently used.
Y/n hurried toward it and pushed through.
Outside, the air hit her all at once—cooler, fresher, carrying the scent of early evening and diesel fumes from generators hidden in the treeline. The base’s camouflaged fencing loomed in the distance.
But Keegan wasn’t there.
Instead, a small group of soldiers leaned against the concrete wall, smoking and chatting quietly. Their laughter drifted lazily through the crisp air.
One of them noticed her, nodding in greeting. Y/n nodded back, scanning the small courtyard again.
Nothing.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
She slipped back inside, letting the heavy door fall closed behind her. Her boots clicked on the floor as she moved through the hall, frustration settling low in her gut. Losing his trail felt stupidly disappointing.
She wandered down another corridor—this one lined with offices. The overhead lights hummed. Nameplates glinted. None of these belonged to her. Or to him. She knew that. But her feet carried her anyway, mind racing, trying to figure out why Keegan’s mood bothered her so much.
She turned around, heading out of the office hall.
Another door to the outside sat at the end of the next stretch of hallway. A red EXIT sign glowed above it. Y/n hesitated, then pressed the bar.
The door opened to the side of the base—a quieter area, where the trees grew close to the bunker walls, shadowing the perimeter in long strips of shade. The evening light filtered through the branches, cool and blue.
She stepped out, inhaling deeply. She needed the air, needed the clarity.
And then she saw him.
Off in the treeline, just a few yards away, Keegan stood with one shoulder braced against a pine tree. His mask was pulled up to the bridge of his nose, a cigarette glowing faintly between two fingers as he exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
He looked… still.
Withdrawn.
Lost in whatever storm was brewing beneath that otherwise unreadable exterior.
Y/n’s breath caught.
She wasn’t sure why she was nervous—but she was.
Keegan didn’t notice her yet.
Or maybe he had—and just wasn’t reacting.
Y/n drew in a slow breath, letting the cool air settle her nerves before she stepped away from the bunker wall and toward the treeline where Keegan stood. Pine needles cushioned her footsteps, muffling the sound, but still she felt strangely loud approaching him—like her presence might shatter whatever quiet space he’d carved out for himself.
He didn’t look up. Not when she neared. Not when she stopped a few feet away. Not even when she shifted her weight, unsure if she was interrupting something he desperately needed.
Keegan just leaned against the tree, shoulders slightly hunched, cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint glow lit the underside of his mask, casting orange shadows across the fabric.
Y/n swallowed. She’d never been a smoker—never liked the taste, the burn, or the smell clinging to clothes. Ryder had been the one to teach her, mostly because she’d once entertained the ridiculous idea that maybe matching one of Keegan’s habits would make him easier to talk to.
It hadn’t.
But it had given her something to reach for now.
“Got another one?” she asked quietly.
Keegan didn’t respond at first. He exhaled a line of smoke that drifted upward through the branches before reaching into the left pocket of his fatigues. Without looking at her, without making a single comment, he pulled out the entire pack and handed it over.
His gloved hand brushed hers briefly—cool, steady, impersonal.
Y/n took the pack and slid a cigarette out with her lips before holding the rest back to him. He accepted it, slipping it into his pocket again, still not saying anything.
She suddenly realized she didn’t have a lighter.
“Can I borrow…?” she started, tapping the unlit cigarette between her fingers.
Keegan finally moved—not much, just enough to dig into another pocket and pull out a battered metal lighter. He handed it to her with a short nod, mask still pulled up above his nose.
She flicked the wheel once. Then again. The flame sparked but died instantly. She tried a third time, her thumb slipping, the cigarette barely catching.
Embarrassment prickled hot under her collar. She could feel his eyes on her now—not mocking, but watching with that quiet, unreadable interest he had whenever someone was struggling with something simple.
The next moment happened fast:
Keegan plucked the cigarette straight from her mouth.
She blinked, startled, lips still parted.
He didn’t even comment. He just placed her cigarette between his own lips—now holding two—and flicked the lighter with an ease that made the flame steady immediately. He lit hers cleanly, took a short drag to make sure it stayed lit, then handed it back to her between two fingers.
Not a word.
Not a hint of annoyance.
Just efficient, practiced movement.
He slid the lighter back into his pocket with a soft metallic click.
Y/n accepted the cigarette and took a small drag—careful this time. Ryder had once convinced her to inhale too deeply, and she’d spent the next ten minutes coughing her lungs out behind the barracks while he laughed his ass off. Her throat still remembered.
The smoke hit her tongue with that sharp, earthy bitterness she’d never fully grown used to. She exhaled slowly, pretending it didn’t sting.
Keegan watched her from the corner of his eye.
Not laughing.
Not sighing.
Just… observing.
And that, somehow, was worse.
She stood beside him in the cool forest shade, the war distant but always present, the base humming quietly behind them. Smoke drifted between them like a thin veil.
And still, he hadn’t said a single thing.
Y/n stood beside him in the quiet shade, smoke drifting slowly between them like mist caught in the branches. The base hummed faintly in the distance—heavy doors opening, muffled conversations, and a generator somewhere rumbling like a distant storm. Every sound felt sharper out here, more exposed.
Her mind, though, was caught in its own storm.
Say something. No, don’t. Ask him what’s wrong. No, he’ll shut you down. Apologize. For what? He snapped at you. But maybe you did something— No. Stop.
She took a shaky breath and stared at the cigarette between her fingers. The ember glowed faintly in the dim light. She knew she was wasting it—everyone could see it. Even Keegan, watching her from the corner of his eye, his posture still and unreadable, probably guessed she was barely smoking at all.
Every few seconds she brought it near her lips, then stopped.
Then tried again.
Then hesitated.
Her mind refusing to cooperate with her mouth.
The quiet between them stretched longer and longer.
The metal door on the bunker wall swung open with a sharp clank. A group of soldiers—three men and two women—filed out, laughing among themselves as they fished out cigarettes and lighters. Their voices were loud in the cool evening air, boots crunching over the gravel and pine needles.
They lit up fast and practiced. Drag. Exhale. Talk. Laugh. Drag again.
Y/n’s face warmed in embarrassment. They were smoking casually, confidently, like it was second nature. She was standing there like she’d never seen a cigarette before—barely inhaling, barely speaking, too aware of herself.
A tiny, invisible pressure pushed on her chest—the urge to prove she wasn’t an idiot. She took a quicker drag to match their pace.
Too quick.
Too deep.
Immediately the smoke scorched down her throat like fire.
Y/n’s eyes watered. She doubled over, coughing violently, the cigarette almost slipping from her hand.
Keegan reacted instantly.
He lowered his own cigarette from his mouth, blew out smoke away from her face, and stepped closer. Without a word, he put a steady hand on her back, patting once—firm but careful.
“Easy,” he muttered, voice low.
Her lungs burned. She tried to catch her breath, coughing again and gagging on the harsh taste.
Keegan plucked the cigarette from her fingers with two gloved fingers, then guided her backward until her shoulders bumped gently against the rough bark of the tree. She let herself lean into it, inhaling fresh air in desperate gulps.
He didn’t crowd her. Didn’t hover. Just stayed close enough to make sure she didn’t drop.
She said nothing. The embarrassment was crawling up her throat now, replacing the smoke.
Keegan watched her, expression hidden but eyes sharp. He waited—patient, unusually patient—until her breathing evened out.
Only then did he hold the cigarette back out to her, offering it silently.
She hesitated, torn between taking it back or calling it quits.
But Keegan finally broke the silence, his voice roughened from smoke but steady.
“How often you smoke, sweetheart?”
He didn’t ask it like an accusation. Or like he was mocking her. Just… asking. Calm. Curious. A quiet question in the shade of the trees.
And for the first time since finding him out here, she felt her heartbeat slow.
He was talking again.
Really talking.
And he sounded like the Keegan she knew.
Y/n managed to steady her breathing, leaning lightly against the tree as the last burn faded from her throat. She held the cigarette loosely now, unsure if she even wanted it anymore.
“I don’t… do it often,” she said finally. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “Just sometimes.”
She didn’t add only with you or because Ryder taught me so I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of you.
Some things felt too naked to say aloud.
Keegan hummed, low in his chest—a sound of acknowledgment, not approval. He reached out, plucking the cigarette from her fingers once more. His own had burned down to the filter; he dropped it and crushed it under his boot with a deliberate twist.
Then he lifted her cigarette to his lips and took a casual drag—claiming it without a word.
“Yeah,” he murmured, smoke curling from his mouth. “Figured you weren’t exactly a regular, sweetheart.”
Y/n glanced at the ground, feeling strangely young under that quiet observation.
Keegan’s voice softened—not warm exactly, but gentler than before. “Listen… I don’t think you should. You’re young. Pretty. Got a full set of working lungs. No reason to wreck ’em with this shit.”
Her stomach fluttered at the unexpected compliment, even though it had been slipped in with the subtlety of a man who pretended he didn’t mean it.
She didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on the earth at her boots. Pine needles. A cigarette butt. The dark toes of Keegan’s boots beside hers.
His eyes stayed on her for a beat longer before he took another slow drag, exhaled up toward the canopy, and asked. “So… why’re you out here?”
Y/n lifted her head a little. “I was… looking for you.”
One of his eyebrows rose beneath the shadow of the mask. He didn’t speak—just made a small gesture with his shoulders, a silent Go on.
She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how quiet the forest had become. “You seemed off,” she said. “Earlier. I… wanted to see what was wrong. Were you mad at me? Did something happen? Did someone piss you off?” She swallowed. “You’ve never snapped at me before.”
Keegan didn’t look away this time. He watched her with that steady scout-sniper focus, the kind that made people squirm because it was impossible to hide under it.
He hummed again and took another drag—longer this time. When he exhaled, he tipped his head back against the tree trunk, the fading light revealng the dark stubble across his jaw and neck.
He was overdue for a shave. Maybe two days. Regulations would be on him soon.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Just thinking about stuff, sweetheart.”
Y/n raised an eyebrow of her own—clearly not buying it.
Keegan saw it. A small smirk ghosted his face, faint but real.
He exhaled slower this time, like the words were reluctant to follow. “I just…” His throat bobbed. “Wish I got to talk to you longer. Spend more time with you.”
Y/n blinked.
The forest held still.
Even the distant noise from the base seemed to fade.
She pieced it together slowly, the realization settling warm and soft in her chest.
“…Are you jealous?” she asked gently. “Of me hanging out with Ryder so much?”
Keegan’s jaw tightened. He looked down, then aside. Silence stretched.
And then, without looking at her, he gave the smallest nod.
Not big enough to be dramatic.
Just enough to tell the truth.
Y/n hummed, the sound thoughtful—not mocking, not judging. She looked at him with a new understanding, smoke curling lazily between them.
The night felt different suddenly—colder around the edges, warmer in the space between them.
Y/n shifted her boots against the pine needles, suddenly aware of herself in a way she didn’t like. Her face felt warm—too warm—and she ducked her head, hoping the fading light would hide the color rising in her cheeks.
Keegan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from him, subtle and short. He wasn’t laughing at her—more like he found her reaction… endearing. His gaze drifted off toward the treeline again, like giving her space he knew she needed.
He liked her.
That much was clear now—even if he wasn’t saying it, even if he held it close, tucked somewhere behind that cold, steady exterior he wore like armor. If someone asked him, he wouldn’t flinch at calling her his girl.
But he wasn’t about to say that out loud.
Not yet.
Not here.
Y/n looked away, fighting the small, spiraling thoughts in her mind. She had always liked him—quietly, patiently, never pushing. She never chased him like others did. She accepted being just his friend. Most days, that was enough.
But when other women talked to him—even if it was rare—she felt that sharp little twist in her chest. The one she pretended she didn’t notice.
She cleared her throat.
“…Can I try smoking again?” she asked, voice careful.
“No.” Keegan didn’t even look at her when he said it. “Not from mine. Don’t think you should.”
Y/n smirked, leaning into the tease because it felt safer than the silence. “I could just get my own.”
Keegan finally glanced at her, eyes narrowing beneath the edge of his mask in amused warning
“And I’d just take ’em from you.”
She scoffed. “Oh, really?”
He pushed off the tree and stood to his full height, towering over her—broad shoulders, steady posture, and calm authority radiating even in the soft evening light.
“Really.”
Y/n felt her heartbeat skip, then looked away again, trying to regain composure.
Keegan tilted his head. “Where’d you even get that pack you gave me anyway? Military only supplies one brand, and it sure as hell wasn’t that.”
Her stomach dropped.
The heat rushed to her face again. She looked away, hoping he wouldn’t push.
He didn’t wait.
A gloved hand gently but firmly caught her chin, directing her face back toward him.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low. “Where’d you get ’em?”
She swallowed, caught. “When I’m out on scouting or recon… sometimes I check abandoned houses. Just to see if there’s anything useful.”
His brow lifted.
“I have, um… a shoebox in my barracks full of cigarette packs.” She winced. “Some are full. Most aren’t.”
Keegan shook his head, but his mouth curved into a grin she rarely saw. “You should give ’em all to me.”
Y/n snorted, recovering some of her nerve. “No way. I use them to bribe people for things.”
That earned a real, quiet laugh from him. “I might have to confiscate ’em then.”
She stared up at him. Then sighed dramatically. “Fine. You can have them.”
Keegan’s hand slid from her chin to the small of her back—warm, steady, unexpected.
“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “You keep ’em. I’m kidding.”
Her breath hitched slightly. His hand stayed exactly where it was, grounding her, sending warmth through her uniform.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest around them was still—only the distant rumble of the base and the faint buzz of insects in the trees.
Then Keegan looked down at her.
“What’re you doing tonight?”
Y/n blinked. “It is tonight. We’re past dinner.”
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion easy. “I know you stay up late.”
She rolled her eyes with a soft smile. “Not really doing anything.”
Silence followed—but not the heavy kind from earlier. This one felt slow, thoughtful.
Keegan shifted the cigarette between his fingers, then finally said, “You wanna come to my barracks? Play some cards?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Cards?”
“Some of the guys’ll be there,” he added quickly, almost apologizing. “Sorry. Can’t kick ’em out.”
“It’s fine,” she said softly. “I’d… like that.”
Keegan couldn’t hide the smile this time. It spread slowly, pulling at the corner of his mouth before he tugged his mask down over it, as if covering it up before she could tease him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, guiding her with a hand at her lower back as they headed toward the bunker door. “Let’s get inside before someone thinks we died out here.”
The metal door hissed open, warm bunker air brushing against their faces as he led her in.
For once, Keegan didn’t walk ahead of her.
He stayed right beside her.
Keegan kept his hand at the small of Y/n’s back as they walked through the bunker’s dim hallways. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, flickering here and there as the ventilation system hummed behind the walls. The deeper they went, the warmer the air grew from body heat, machinery, and too many tired soldiers moving through the narrow corridors.
Their footsteps echoed on the solid concrete floor, blending with distant radios crackling, equipment clattering, and someone laughing two hallways over. The base never truly slept.
Keegan didn’t talk much on the walk—not unusual. But this silence felt different. Comfortable. Intentional. Like he was keeping himself beside her on purpose, not out of coincidence or habit.
When they reached the Ghosts’ barracks room, Keegan punched in the door code and stepped inside first, holding the heavy metal door open for her. Warm light spilled across the space, illuminating mismatched blankets, scattered boots, dog tags hanging from bunks, and the faint smell of coffee that had been brewed hours ago and abandoned.
Three guys sat on the floor around a low crate they’d turned into a makeshift table. Cards and a half-eaten bag of beef jerky lay in the center. Logan looked up first. His quiet eyes softened in recognition.
Keegan gestured with a nod. “You know Logan.”
Logan gave her the faintest smile before returning his attention to the cards.
Keegan pointed to the others. “That’s Kick and Neptune. Ghost team. Good guys.”
Kick saluted her with two fingers. Neptune offered a chin lift.
Y/n opened her mouth to greet them—
Then froze.
Ryder.
She was supposed to meet Ryder outside.
Her stomach dipped. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and typed quickly.
Hey, plans changed. Something came up. I’m really sorry. Raincheck?
His reply came almost instantly.
All good. I’m just gonna read. Text me if you need something.
Another message buzzed through before she could lock her phone.
Don’t get in trouble 😉
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, ignoring the ding that followed.
Keegan noticed but didn’t comment. Instead, he grabbed a folded blanket from his bunk and spread it across the floor beside him, glancing at her as he straightened the fabric.
“Sit,” he said simply.
Y/n smirked. “You trying to make this comfortable?”
“Trying,” he replied, deadpan.
“It’s the floor, Keegs. Nothing’s saving that.”
He gave a low hum but didn’t argue. She sat beside him anyway.
They started a round of poker—cards slapping softly against the crate, chips clicking, laughter breaking out when Kick bluff-called Neptune and lost miserably.
When it came time to bet, everyone tossed in something—gum, a protein bar, a half-full can of energy drink, someone’s last packet of M&Ms.
Y/n hesitated, looking around for something of hers she could offer—
Keegan’s arm came up in front of her, subtle but protective.
“She’s with me,” he said, tone final. “We’re teaming.”
He slid a pack of gum onto the crate.
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Gambling gum?”
He shrugged. “Better than betting your dog tags.”
The guys laughed.
As the game went on, Y/n found her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The warmth of the room, the low hum of conversation, the comfortable closeness of Keegan beside her—it all blended into something soothing. Her head dipped once, then again.
Then it fully dropped—right onto Keegan’s thigh.
He stiffened just for a heartbeat.
Then relaxed.
Kick snorted. “Damn, Russ. Out cold.”
Neptune laughed quietly. “Guess you wore her out already.”
Keegan shot him a look that shut the entire comment down instantly. No one joked after that.
They finished the hand. Keegan won—of course he did—and the guys began gathering their things, trading muted goodnights as they drifted to their bunks.
When the room finally quieted, Keegan glanced down at the sleeping girl sprawled across his lap. Her hand was curled loosely around the hem of his sleeve, like she’d done it unconsciously.
He let out a breath—slow, soft, almost fond.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Carefully, as if she were made of something that might break, Keegan slid an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back. She barely stirred as he lifted her, head falling gently against his chest.
The overhead lights dimmed as he moved through the barracks toward his bunk. He didn’t even consider carrying her through multiple halls to the women’s barracks—not after curfew, not with restrictions, not when she looked so peacefully asleep.
He lowered her onto his bed—his actual bed—and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. She shifted slightly, relaxing into the pillow with a small sigh.
Keegan hesitated only a moment before lying beside her on top of the covers, turning onto his side so he faced her. The barracks were nearly silent now, save for distant footsteps and the soft hum of the ventilation system.
He watched her breathe for a minute, something unspoken softening the sharp line of his expression.
Canvas walls rattled softly with every gust blowing against the field hospital, the fabric snapping like distant gunfire. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sweat, and sand—every cot filled, every curtain pulled tight for a sliver of privacy. Voices murmured around them: medics giving orders, soldiers groaning, and boots rushing across canvas flooring.
Y/n slipped through the curtain around cot 14, already bracing herself.
Logan Walker sat half-upright on the bed, jaw clenched, trying—and failing—to look relaxed. His broad frame looked wrong without his gear, reduced to a gray T-shirt soaked through at the collar. His face tightened when he tried to adjust himself, but when he noticed her, he forced a tired grin.
“Hey, nurse.” His voice was hoarse, the greeting edged with pain he didn’t want her to notice.
She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before reaching for the clipboard. “What did you do this time, Walker?”
“Banged up my shoulder,” he answered, keeping his good hand planted on the mattress for balance. The injured arm hung just a little too still.
Y/n arched an eyebrow. “You dislocated your shoulder,” she corrected, skimming the chart. “Again.”
Logan winced and reached for the water cup with his right hand, taking a slow sip so she wouldn’t see his hand trembling. “Yeah… I can feel it.”
“Why didn’t the field medic fix it?” she asked, already stepping closer to examine the joint.
“He was busy? I don’t know.” He tried to shrug. Bad idea. His breath hitched, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek like that would hide anything.
She gave him a look that said you’re not fooling anyone. Logan looked away, pretending to study the tent ceiling.
“You’re lucky,” Y/n murmured, her fingers gently probing along the dislocated joint. “The doctor says it’s a minor one.”
“That’s good.” His words were too clipped. His eyelashes fluttered with every touch, and he swallowed hard, trying to sit like a man who wasn’t just white-knuckling the edge of the bed.
“You’ll be in a sling for a full week,” she continued. “Then you come back and the doctor decides if you’re cleared.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Can’t we cut that time shorter?”
Y/n paused, narrowing her eyes. “You really that desperate to get back out there?”
He opened his mouth. “Well, my bro—AH!” His entire body jerked as she pushed his shoulder back into place with practiced force.
The pop was unmistakable.
He glared at her through watering eyes, breathing hard. “You could’ve warned me.”
Y/n hid her grin behind the clipboard. “I only warn babies.”
He tried rotating the shoulder—another mistake. Pain flashed across his face, raw and honest this time.
“Stop moving before you make it worse,” she scolded lightly, tapping his shin with two fingers. “You’re lucky I fixed it before you tore something.”
Logan muttered something under his breath and slumped back against the pillows.
“So,” she added casually, “your brother what?”
He blinked, then let out a long, slow breath. “He’s out there. I don’t want him fighting alone.”
Y/n couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet of you, Logan.”
“It’s not sweet,” he grumbled. “It’s… family.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” She reached for the sling on the bedside table and unfolded it. “Arm up.”
He obeyed reluctantly, watching her hands as she secured the straps around his neck and ribs. His voice softened. “Come on, Y/n… for me? Just a shorter time in the sling?”
“Nope,” she said immediately, tightening the final strap. “Your shoulder needs to heal, and it doesn’t do that while you’re off chasing Federation soldiers.”
He tilted his head at her, a small smirk forming. “But you would let me out early… if you could.”
Y/n stepped back, meeting his eyes for only a second. “Maybe.”
She winked, then swept the curtain aside to check on her next patient—leaving Logan staring after her, a little dazed, a little annoyed, and absolutely smitten.
*****
The mess tent buzzed with the familiar evening chaos—soldiers shuffling in and out, trays clattering, the low drone of generators outside mixing with chatter and the sharp scent of burned coffee. Y/n sat alone at a corner table, rolling her stiff shoulders after a long shift. Her plate sat empty; ration shortages meant the nursing staff got the scraps once the troops were fed.
“Hey, nurse.”
She didn’t need to see him to know the voice—warm, teasing, a little too pleased with itself. She glanced over her shoulder and found Logan Walker standing behind her, a food tray in one hand and his other arm still tucked neatly into a sling.
He gave a crooked smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“Hi,” she answered softly, watching as he slid onto the bench beside her. He set his tray down carefully so he didn’t jostle his injured shoulder. “You aren’t sitting with your friends tonight?”
“They shipped out on a mission,” Logan said. The casual tone didn’t hide the worry flickering behind his eyes—it was always there when Hesh wasn’t within arm’s reach. He picked up his fork and began cutting his chicken breast into two equal halves, pushing one to the edge of the plate as if he planned it that way all along.
“Oh…” Y/n said, glancing down at her own empty plate.
Without hesitation, Logan slid half his chicken onto hers.
“Logan!” Her voice pitched upward, scandalized, and she looked around like MPs were about to descend on them. “You can’t do that!”
“Yes, I can,” he said simply, nudging the plate back toward her when she tried pushing it away. “Medical staff barely get any protein in camp rations. You guys need it more than anyone.”
“But you get it for a reason,” she argued. “You need protein to heal your shoul—mmph!”
Logan gently—but firmly—shoved a chunk of chicken into her mouth.
He sat back, grinning like he’d just won a battle. A warm laugh escaped him when she glared at him around the food, cheeks puffed in indignation.
“You can’t just shove food in people’s mouths, Logan!” she said once she swallowed, pointing her fork at him like it was a weapon.
He lifted his hands innocently—well, hand. The one he could use. Then, before she could stop him, he speared another piece of chicken… and popped that one into his own mouth, chewing smugly.
Only then did Y/n cautiously inch forward again.
“I can,” Logan said after he swallowed. “I did. And I definitely will again if you keep trying to give it back.” His smile softened. “Eat it. It’s good.”
Y/n let out a breath but cut a piece of chicken with the edge of her fork, mimicking the way he had done it. She took a bite. “…It’s not that bad.”
“See?” Logan nudged her gently with his good elbow. “Told you.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile.
“What are you up to tonight?” Logan asked, still eating but slower now, clearly more interested in her answer than the food. “Off shift?”
“No night shift,” she confirmed, leaning back. “I’m… not sure what I’ll do.”
“You should go for a walk with me,” he said casually—too casually.
Her brow arched. “You want me to go for a walk with you tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Around a military camp.”
“Mhmm.” He stabbed another piece of chicken.
“In an area where the Federation sometimes sends small raiding parties to pick off people walking alone?”
“We’ll be fine,” he promised, like he was discussing weather. “I can handle them.”
She stared pointedly at the sling. “Right. You and your slung arm can take on a Federation ambush.”
Logan leaned back, smirking. “It’ll be perfectly safe. And fun. Promise.”
Y/n sighed, her fork clinking softly against the empty plate Logan had insisted on filling for her. She looked at him—really looked—and saw that spark he always got when he wanted company but didn’t know how to say it plainly.
“…Okay,” she said finally.
His grin lit up the whole side of the tent.
Canvas walls flapped softly in the cooling evening wind as soldiers drifted between tents, some heading to night duty, others lingering with mugs of weak coffee. The camp smelled of dust, fuel, and whatever the mess hall had tried to pass off as dinner. Lanterns hanging from guide ropes cast warm pools of light across the packed dirt.
Logan rose from the table and—unexpectedly—held out his hand like he belonged in another century. His posture was casual, but his eyes were hopeful.
Y/n stared at the offered hand, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”
He only shrugged, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.
She rolled her eyes but placed her hand in his anyway, letting him pull her to her feet. His grip was warm and steady, even with his arm still bound in the sling. When she was up, he didn’t let go. Instead, he laced their fingers loosely and guided her out of the mess tent, weaving between clusters of soldiers and stacks of supply crates.
The camp felt calmer in the evening—quieter conversations, distant clanking of maintenance crews, a dog barking somewhere near the motor pool. Logan slowed his pace to match hers.
“You should be a field nurse,” he said suddenly, glancing sideways at her.
“A field nurse?” she echoed. “Why’s that?”
“Well… you’ve got all the qualifications,” Logan replied, ducking his head beneath a rope strung between tents—a makeshift clothesline with damp uniforms swaying in the wind.
“And how do you know what qualifications I have?” Y/n stepped under the rope behind him, eyes narrowing.
Logan’s smile froze. Guilt washed across his face like someone had flipped a switch. “Oh… uh…”
“Logan.” She stopped walking. “How did you know that?”
“Hesh looked at your files,” he muttered.
“And why did he do that?” Her tone told him she already knew the answer.
Logan didn’t drop her hand; he just squeezed it gently. “I asked him to.”
Y/n shook her head, but her lips twitched upward despite herself. “As one does, I guess.”
He brightened, relieved she wasn’t mad. “You’d get higher pay than working camp shifts, you know.”
“Because I’d be more likely to get my head blown off,” she countered. “I happen to enjoy keeping all my limbs where they belong.”
“I’d keep an eye on you,” Logan said easily. “Keep you safe.”
“Oh would you now?” she teased.
“Yep. I’d take out any Federation soldier who even thinks about pointing a gun at you.”
“My hero,” Y/n said dramatically, nudging him.
“Only for you,” he answered, stepping over a rock on the path.
Y/n didn’t bother stepping over it—she stomped on it and hopped off, watching a trio of hares dart into tall grass. Logan laughed under his breath at the contrast.
“Even with a busted shoulder?” she added.
“Especially with a busted shoulder,” he said with a proud grin.
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. Logan didn’t talk nearly as much as Hesh, but when he did—when he was comfortable—he had a quiet charisma that drew people in. Around Y/n, the words came easily, like he didn’t need to think too hard.
She swung their joined hands back and forth, a small playful motion. Logan looked down at her, eyes soft, memorizing every line of her face in the lantern light.
“Also,” he added, “you’d get to see me more if you were a field nurse. Ghost Team doesn’t have one.”
“Maybe they don’t want one,” Y/n suggested.
“Maybe…” Logan admitted, “but I think we need one. And you’d be a good fit.”
“Really now?” she said, amused. “How so?”
He inhaled like he was collecting his thoughts. “Well… for starters, you’re qualified. Nursing-wise and soldier-wise. You used to be infantry before nursing, right?”
“I was a Ranger,” she hummed, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter into the grass.
Logan nodded. “See? That’s half the job. And you’re smart. Friendly. You don’t like the Federation.”
Y/n snorted. “I don’t think anyone likes the Federation. I wouldn’t call that a qualification.”
“Still counts.” He looked down briefly, then back at her. His cheeks flushed slightly. “And you’re pretty.”
She froze for half a second, then ducked her head so he wouldn’t catch her smile. “Well… if you can convince Merrick and Elias you need a medic…” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I’ll put my name in the list of candidates.”
Logan’s entire expression lit up like she’d handed him a victory. “You better. Otherwise, I might… accidentally put your name in anyway.”
She laughed, shaking her head as he squeezed her hand again—gentle, warm, certain.
The lights of the camp faded behind them as they followed the narrow dirt trail stretching into the scrubland. It looked like it once belonged to old ATVs or farm trucks—two faint tire grooves with overgrown weeds climbing up the center. Rocks of all sizes littered the path, glinting in the moonlight. Y/n had to resist the childish urge to climb the bigger ones just to jump off and feel that quick, wild jolt in her stomach.
Adrenaline always did call to her.
The thought alone would probably be enough for Logan to write it onto his growing list of reasons she should join the Ghosts as a field medic.
The evening was cool, the air carrying dust and the faint smell of diesel from camp. Grass rustled softly around them, stirred by the wind. Just beyond the reach of their footsteps, the world felt quieter—empty but watchful.
Y/n’s thoughts drifted to the team Logan kept talking about.
Hesh liked her—maybe too much, always grinning whenever Logan’s attention lingered her way.
Elias had been surprisingly warm for a commander, offering her steady nods of approval whenever she worked on one of his men.
Keegan… well, Keegan was Keegan. Silent, unreadable, always lurking with eyes that seemed to register everything and comment on nothing.
And Merrick—intimidating at first glance, but fair in a way that felt razor sharp. If he liked you, you were protected. If he didn’t… well, best not to be in that position.
A long, lonely howl broke across the landscape. A single animal—probably a coyote—echoing into the twilight.
If it had been a stray dog, someone from camp would already be hollering its name like a curse thrown into the wind.
But the wilderness around them stayed quiet.
Logan glanced at her. “Do you have a day off anytime soon?”
Y/n snorted, shaking her head. “Not out here. On base, sure. But in camps? Not a chance. When we aren’t treating patients, we’re cleaning supplies or prepping kits. Which… you know, is basically all the time.”
Logan squeezed her hand gently, watching her kick another rock off the path. “Busy, busy woman.”
“Please,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his good arm. “You’re just as bad when you’re not getting patched up from stupid accidents.”
“Hey,” Logan shot back, pointing at his sling with a dramatic sigh. “This was Keegan’s driving, thank you very much.”
“Oh? Finally telling me what really happened?” Y/n laughed. “Let me guess—he took a corner too fast?”
“Took? He dives around corners,” Logan grumbled. “Any chance that man gets, he steals the driver’s seat. Dad and Merrick don’t stop him. They say it’s only crazy because we’re getting shot at every time he’s behind the wheel.”
Y/n laughed again, the sound light and carrying on the wind. “Then maybe you should grab the driver’s seat before he does.”
“I’ll work on it,” Logan said, sounding personally offended but also amused.
Something small fluttered near them. Y/n caught the movement from the corner of her eye and halted, scanning the grass.
“What is it?” Logan immediately stepped closer, his posture tightening—protective instinct flaring before he could think.
“Just a bird,” she said softly. She waited a moment but saw nothing else. “It’s gone.”
Logan didn’t move right away. His gaze swept the surrounding grass, shoulders squared, feet shifting subtly into a more defensive stance. Only when he was satisfied did he continue walking beside her.
Ahead, a huge boulder rose out of the earth like it had been punched up from underground—weathered, jagged, almost the size of a small car. Y/n let go of his hand and climbed onto a flattish ledge, the stone cool beneath her palms. Sitting there put her eye level with Logan, even though he remained standing.
He looked up at her, moonlight catching the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—warm, relieved, and just a little bit in awe.
The wind picked up around them, brushing through the tall grass that bordered the old trail like waves rolling against the shore. The camp’s lantern lights were distant now—soft glimmers swallowed by dusk—leaving just the moon, the quiet, and the uneven shadows cast by the enormous boulder Y/n sat upon. Logan stood between her knees, close enough that she could see the small flecks of gold in his brown eyes when the moonlight hit them.
“I mean it when I say it, Y/n.” Logan’s voice was low, warm, and tinged with a shy confidence he didn’t often show. “You are a pretty woman.”
He chuckled softly as he stepped closer, the toes of his boots scuffing lightly against the gravel. His good hand settled gently on her knee, thumb brushing once, almost absentmindedly—as if touching her grounded him. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of her uniform pants.
Y/n’s breath stalled in her chest.
Her face heated in a way she couldn’t stop, and Logan’s smirk widened when she turned her head just enough to hide the smile betraying her composure.
“Oh… you be quiet,” she muttered, but there was no heat behind it. Only playful embarrassment.
“You want me to be quiet?” Logan huffed a small laugh. “Normally, I’m told that’s all I am.”
“You’re better than Keegan,” Y/n shot back lightly.
Logan let out a bark of laughter—sharp, bright, and genuine. “Yeah, well, that bar is underground. I only ever heard him say ‘thank you when I first hung around,’ but he talks more if you’re around him long enough. Another reason you should be a field medic. You’d be around him more. Maybe you could medically order him to stop driving. It’s… a hazard to humanity.”
“I’ve never experienced his driving, so I can’t confirm that.”
“My word isn’t good enough?” he teased.
“No, no, it is,” Y/n assured him. “But I’d still rather experience it myself.”
Logan shook his head emphatically. “Don’t wish for what you don’t want. I swear he’s killed people by running them over. I’ve seen him run people over. Like… on purpose.”
“Maybe you should take notes then,” Y/n laughed. “Become his protégé.”
He shook his head with a grin, leaning in slightly. “I’m not sniper material. But hell, I’ll learn what I can from him.”
“Good,” she said, smiling.
A gust of wind swept past them, lifting a strand of her hair and slapping it against her cheek. Y/n tried to blow it away—once, twice, three times—but it clung stubbornly to her skin. Logan watched her attempts with an amused, fond expression.
She ducked her head, deciding she’d rather die than use her hands after committing to her ridiculous strategy.
Logan lifted his hand from her knee and reached toward her slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. His fingertips brushed her cheek, feather-light, chasing the stray strand until he tucked it gently behind her ear. His hand lingered there a moment, warm against her skin.
Before she could speak, Logan leaned in, lowering his forehead until it rested against hers. The contact was soft—but intimate in a way that made her breath catch. Their noses almost touched. She felt the heat of him, the faint rasp of his breath against her lips, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Y/n…” His voice dropped to a whisper—gentle, secretive, like the night itself shouldn’t overhear. “You are pretty. And I do like you.”
Her heart thudded hard—once, twice—so loud she worried he could hear it. “I know, Logan,” she whispered back. “You say it a lot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his forehead still pressed to hers. “And you like me back.”
Her lips tilted upward. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t want to. “Yes,” she breathed. “I do like you back, Logan.”
He closed his eyes for a brief second—relief, happiness, and something deeper flashing across his face. When he opened them again, they were soft but determined.
“Good,” he whispered. “Then it means I can do this.”
He leaned in carefully—slowly enough that she could pull away, but she didn’t. His hand slid to the back of her head, guiding her gently toward him. His lips brushed hers once—just a whisper of contact, testing, ensuring she wanted it too.
She did.
He kissed her softly at first, his lips warm and tender against hers, like he was afraid of hurting her or crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. His good arm drew her closer, palm cradling the back of her head with surprising gentleness for a man who had spent his adulthood in combat.
Y/n kissed him back, hands finding the fabric of his uniform shirt and bunching lightly. The world seemed to narrow around them—no distant soldiers talking, no hum of generators, no war burning just beyond the horizon. Just the two of them, breath mingling, closeness tightening like a silken thread drawn taut between their hearts.
Logan kissed her deeper—still slow, still careful, but with a quiet intensity that told her this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment impulse. He had wanted this. Thought about it. Maybe for longer than he would ever admit.
When they finally parted, Logan didn’t pull away far. His nose brushed hers. His thumb traced a slow arc across her cheek.
“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.
Y/n let out a small, breathless laugh. “I could tell.”
He smiled—soft, boyish, and absolutely smitten.
And he stayed close, forehead against hers once more, as if letting go too quickly would break something sacred between them.
The warmth of Logan’s lips still lingered on Y/n’s, a soft echo pulsing through her chest. The night felt different now—charged, humming, almost tender. The air smelled of dust and dry grass, the wind carrying faint voices from distant patrols.
“That was nice,” Logan whispered, his forehead still almost touching hers.
“I-It was,” Y/n breathed, her face burning, happiness curling at the corners of her smile.
Logan drew back just enough to look down at her properly. “If I could use both arms, I’d carry you back to camp right now.”
Her head jerked up. “Oh?” she asked, half teasing, half startled. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said with an earnestness that made her stomach flip. “Carry you right to my tent. And since the guys are all gone, I’d—”
“Logan Walker, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
Y/n slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say another word.
His eyes sparkled with pure mischief—the kind that made it painfully obvious he absolutely meant whatever she thought he was going to say. Her face flushed even deeper, and that only made his smug amusement grow.
She lowered her hand, and Logan immediately broke into laughter—quiet snorts at first, then full amusement rolling out of him.
“What?” he grinned. “You don’t want that?”
“Not—! Not in a camp! Around other people!” she sputtered, mortified. “That’s just—no! Absolutely not!”
Logan doubled over slightly, laughing harder. “Bet I could still pick you up with one arm anyway.”
“I doubt it.”
The second she saw him inhale to protest, she cut him off sharply.
“And don’t you dare try it. I’m not patching you up if you tear something.”
“You would,” he shot back with a lopsided grin.
“Don’t test it.”
Before he could reply, Y/n slipped off the boulder, landing lightly in front of him—so close their chests nearly brushed if not for the sling between them.
Then she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him.
Logan froze for a heartbeat—surprised, breath catching—then kissed her back with soft urgency, his good hand sliding instinctively to her hip to steady her. When she settled back onto her heels, he looked dazed, almost boyish.
And before he could recover, she winked and skipped ahead on the path.
“H-Hey! Wait up, nurse!”
Logan jogged after her, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. His steps caught up with hers quickly, and he slid his fingers through hers again like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/n shook her head with a shy smile. “You really are something, Logan.”
“So are you,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.
He hesitated a moment before adding, “You know… you can sleep in my tent tonight if you want. The others are out on that mission. They’ll be gone a while—probably all week.”
Y/n quirked an eyebrow. “And no funny business?”
Logan rolled his eyes dramatically. “There will be no fooling around.”
A beat—then a crooked smirk.
“Unless you want to.”
She snorted. “Nice try.”
“Had to shoot my shot,” he said, bumping her gently with his elbow.
They continued toward camp, the lamplight slowly growing brighter. Soldiers on perimeter duty stood in pairs along the ridge, silhouetted rifles slung across their chests. Logan nodded to a few of them as they passed; Y/n did too, though more subtly. The air grew louder—generators humming, boots scraping gravel, faint laughter drifting from one of the inner tents.
Logan escorted her all the way to the nurses’ tent—a long, canvas structure with two lanterns glowing faintly at its entrance.
He paused, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “So… you gonna come spend the night?”
Y/n sighed gently and touched his good arm. “People will talk, Logan. And think things. And I don’t need a bad reputation following me around.”
“Ah.”
The disappointment in his voice was quiet, almost hidden—but not from her. Logan tried to shrug it off. “Well… tomorrow night, then. And I’ll punch anyone who talks bad about you.”
“Oh, Logan.”
Y/n laughed softly, looking around to make sure no one was watching.
No one was.
She leaned up and kissed his cheek—a quick, soft press that left him blinking like she’d short-circuited something important in his brain.
“See you tomorrow, Logan,” she whispered.
Before he could recover, she ducked inside the tent, leaving him standing under the lantern glow—heart racing, sling forgotten, and a stupidly lovesick smile spreading across his face.
*****
The medical tent was chaos.
Canvas walls snapped violently in the wind, rattling overhead like distant thunder while the smell of blood, antiseptic, and smoke hung thick in the air. Y/n stood frozen in the center of it all—gloved hands red, uniform stained, her breath coming out in uneven bursts. The world around her blurred as people rushed past, their voices overlapping and urgent.
“Scalpel!”
“Pressure! Keep pressure!”
“He’s coding again—get the paddles!”
“We’re losing him—we’re losing him!”
A soldier screamed from somewhere behind a curtain. Another medic cursed loudly. A doctor’s sleeves were soaked through to the elbows. The floor beneath Y/n’s boots was slick with spilled saline and smeared dirt tracked in from outside.
Her body shook.
She couldn’t move her hands. She couldn’t move her feet. She couldn’t do anything except watch the unfolding horror.
A nurse grabbed her shoulders—someone she knew, someone she worked beside every day—but the face blurred like a smear of paint. The woman pulled Y/n into a tight, grounding hug, but it didn’t help. Y/n couldn’t breathe. Her lungs clawed for air that refused to come.
Her ears rang as the heart monitor at the next cot let out its final, merciless beep—
Then silence.
Too much silence.
“Calling it,” the doctor said somewhere behind her. His voice was tired and broken. “Time of death—”
Y/n felt the nurse behind her stiffen. Felt the grip on her shoulders tighten.
Felt her own knees start to give.
“No…” she whispered, though she didn’t even know who she was pleading with.
The doctor peeled off his blood-soaked gloves and tossed them into the bin with a heavy thud. Nurses lowered their heads. Someone drew a sheet back.
Y/n turned—slowly, like her body weighed a hundred pounds.
The world narrowed to a single cot.
One soldier.
One man.
His body was still—too still. Someone had already closed his eyes. Dried blood streaked across his jawline and collar. His dog tags glinted faintly under the harsh lantern light, stained with red.
Logan Walker.
Her vision blurred. Her heart lurched violently, slamming against her ribs.
“No,” she choked out. “No, no—Logan—”
She stumbled toward the cot, legs barely holding her up. The nurse behind her reached out, trying to catch her, but Y/n dropped to her knees before the cot, her hands trembling violently. She forced herself to look at him, to touch his cold wrist, to search desperately for any flicker of life.
Nothing.
His chest didn’t rise.
His heartbeat wasn’t there.
His skin looked pale under the lamp’s yellow glow.
His sling was still around his shoulder—his stupid sling from that stupid injury he’d joked about hours ago.
Her breath shattered. A sound tore from her throat—raw, agonized, unrecognizable.
“Logan,” she whispered, the name cracking apart in her mouth. “Please—please don’t—Logan, please—”
She shook harder, shoulders trembling, breath hitching. Tears pooled so quickly they fell in hot streaks, splattering onto her gloves, the cot, the sheet half-covering his chest.
Her surroundings pressed in—crowded, dark, suffocating.
He had died in her care.
Because of her.
Because she wasn’t fast enough.
Because she missed something.
Because she—
Her world crashed, splintered, collapsed beneath her knees.
She reached out to touch his face—his cheek still streaked with dried blood—but her hand passed through—
“Y/n.”
The voice came from everywhere. From nowhere. Echoing strangely.
She gasped, jerking her hand back.
“Y/n, wake up.”
His voice?
No—no, it was someone else. But in the dream everything twisted, bending the world around her. The dead body on the cot suddenly looked pale and distorted—her eyes couldn’t focus on anything anymore.
“Y/n. Y/n, wake up!”
Y/n jolted upright with a strangled gasp, hands clutching at her sleeping bag as though she were still trying to reach for Logan. Her chest heaved, her eyes were wet, and her breath came too fast.
“Hey—hey, easy,” someone whispered, shaking her shoulders gently.
Her vision refocused on the dim interior of the nurses’ tent. Lantern light pooled softly in the center of the space, illuminating bedrolls and scattered personal gear. A few women slept peacefully. Others were half-sitting, watching her with worry.
The nurse beside her—the one who had woken her—had her hands on Y/n’s shoulders, expression soft but alarmed.
“Y/n, you okay?” she asked quietly.
Y/n opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was tight, raw from crying. She lifted a shaky hand and wiped at her face—her fingers came away damp. She’d been crying in her sleep. Hard.
“It… it was just a dream,” Y/n finally whispered, voice barely audible. “Just a dream.”
But her breathing was still rapid, her chest still constricted, and panic still clawing at her ribs. The sleeping bag suddenly felt like a trap—tight, constricting, suffocating. She struggled with the zipper, fingers slipping, growing more frantic.
“Hey—slow down, I’ve got it,” the other nurse murmured, gently guiding her hands away and undoing the zipper herself. Warm air immediately enveloped Y/n as the fabric loosened.
Y/n dragged herself free, pushing the bag aside like it was burning her skin. Her hands trembled as she reached blindly for her boots.
“Where are you going?” The other nurse whispered, worry deepening.
“I just—I need to walk,” Y/n said, tying her boots clumsily with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking.
She stumbled toward the tent flap, stomach tightening, heart hammering with the ghost of loss she could still feel strangling her chest.
The night outside was cold, but she didn’t hesitate—she needed air, needed space, needed movement before the nightmare swallowed her whole again.
She slipped out of the tent.
Y/n walked blindly through camp, boots dragging in the dirt, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. The cold night air stung her wet cheeks, but it didn’t slow the tears. Everything felt distant—the hum of generators, the soft murmur of late-night radio chatter, and the shuffle of patrolling soldiers. No one paid her any mind. No one saw the panic trembling through her limbs or the way her hands kept curling into fists, like she was trying to hold herself together.
She didn’t know how long she walked, only that her feet eventually stopped on their own. Her vision cleared just enough for her to realize where she was.
Logan’s tent.
The Ghosts’ sleeping quarters were quiet, dark, the flap closed and unmoving in the wind. She stared at the entrance, frozen. She could go inside—just slip in and wake him, see him breathing, alive, safe.
But he needed rest. His shoulder needed rest.
And barging into a soldier’s tent in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly something she should be doing.
Y/n forced herself to turn away.
It was just a dream.
Just a nightmare.
Logan’s fine.
He has to be fine.
She took one step away.
Then her breath hitched.
But what if the dream was telling her something? What if he wasn’t fine? What if something happened in the night and no one was there to help him?
Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. Panic clawed its way up her throat.
Before she could stop herself, she slipped through the tent flap.
The interior was pitch black—no lanterns, no ambient light, only the faint shapes of sleeping bags and gear scattered across the floor. Logan had always preferred darkness; it helped him sleep. But right now it felt suffocating.
Y/n stepped forward, hands stretched in front of her. Something soft brushed her boot—a jacket, maybe.
“L-Logan?” she whispered, voice cracking. Anyone awake would have heard immediately that she’d been crying.
No answer.
The silence stabbed deeper.
Her panic spiked, breath quickening as her pulse rushed in her ears.
“Logan, are you awake?” She tried again, louder.
Still nothing.
Y/n took another hesitant step forward—and her toe caught on something solid. She pitched forward with a startled gasp, arms flailing too late to catch herself.
She crashed down hard onto—
“What the fuck…?” a groggy voice groaned under her.
Her breath stopped.
“…Logan?” she squeaked.
A lantern flicked on, its sudden brightness stabbing at her eyes. She blinked rapidly, vision swimming until the shape beneath her came into focus.
Logan.
Hair tousled, half asleep, sling askew, expression bewildered and already shifting to concern.
“Y/n?” He said, blinking at her, trying to wake fast. “What—?”
She stared at him stupidly, eyes red and shiny, her breathing shallow. Tears welled again before she could stop them.
Logan’s entire demeanor snapped from confused to alert in a heartbeat. He sat up fast, wincing as the movement tugged at his shoulder. His free hand clamped around his handgun on instinct.
“What happened? Is the Federation here?” His voice was low, serious, and urgent.
“N-No,” Y/n stuttered, scooting off him and sitting on her knees in the lantern’s glow.
Logan’s eyes scanned her face, his brow tightening as he took in her shaking hands, wet cheeks, and the way she kept trying—and failing—to breathe evenly.
“Hey—hey,” he murmured, setting the gun aside and reaching for her shoulder. His touch was warm and grounding. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Y/n, talk to me.”
“I…just a dream,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Just a nightmare. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have woken you.”
Logan didn’t let her finish.
He caught her arm gently but firmly and tugged her down beside him onto his bedroll, ignoring her startled noise as she landed against him. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until her cheek pressed against his chest. His chin rested lightly on top of her head.
“No,” he said softly. “No, you’re okay. You’re okay. Come here.”
He tried to open his sleeping bag one-handed, struggling with the zipper.
Y/n sniffed once, then let out a tiny, watery laugh despite herself.
She helped him with the zipper—not like she’d been trapped in hers not long ago.
Logan huffed out a relieved breath, pulled the bag open, and guided her inside with him, tugging her close with surprising gentleness. When he managed to zipper it shut again, she was tucked safely against him, her body finally starting to relax.
His fingers traced slow circles against her back.
“What happened?” He asked quietly—not demanding, not pushing, just offering.
Y/n shook her head against his chest. “Nothing…just…nothing.”
Logan didn’t push further. He knew better. Instead, he let out a soft sigh and pressed a small kiss into the top of her hair.
“Alright,” he murmured. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay? Just rest now.”
Y/n closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—gun oil, dust, and a hint of soap.
His heartbeat thudded steadily under her ear.
Alive.
Warm.
Here.
Her shaking eased. Her tears slowed.
And with Logan’s arm wrapped protectively around her, rubbing slow, comforting lines along her spine, she finally managed to fall asleep again.
ough….. halovians who hide their embarrassment with their ear wings………..
robin is so subtle with it, you might not even notice at first. after all, her wings are constantly in motion, fluttering across the side of her face—they’re just another part of her image. she’s an expert at posing them in pictures, using them to frame her face, coyly half-hiding behind them… so when they fold over her cheeks, you might not even realise you’ve flustered her, until you see the blossoming pink through the gaps in the feathers, and that shy, lovesick smile...
but sunday… he’s hard to miss. it’s not the easiest thing to fluster him; in normal circumstances, he’s very good at maintaining his composure. but that just means when you do catch him off guard, the payoff is all the more rewarding. as soon as his face starts to heat up, he turns away from you, his wings nervously fluttering over his cheeks to shelter the growing blush. he can hardly string together a sentence, which only serves to fluster him further. honestly, what have you done to him.....
The front door opens with a small creak, the apartment eerily quiet as Simon stumbles trough it, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer following him — he really can’t wrap his head around why he accepted to go to the pub.
He’s had a few beers, just enough to blur the hard edges of the day, leaving him warm and needy, and as he reaches the bedroom he finds you in bed. You tried to wait for him, you really did, but he took so long and you ended up falling asleep, the show you were watching casting a soft light on your body.
He stands for a moment under the doorway, just to take you in, a fondness only reserved for you swimming in his eyes. You look so soft and inviting cuddled up to his pillow, and of all the crimes he’s guilty of, this is, without question, the worst one: leaving his sweet girl all by herself.
He’s almost clumsy as he takes off his clothes; he leaves them scattered on the floor, which he knows that you’ll scold him for, and in a flash the mattress dips under his weight.
It doesn’t take you long to feel his presence, and a sleepy murmur falls from your lips, your words incoherent.
“Hey, love” he rasps out, he’s already pressing himself against your back, your warm body against his making a soft breath of pure relief escape his lips, the tension bleeding out of his muscles.
When his cold hands find your waist a shiver goes down your spine, the feeling bringing you further out of your slumber. “What time is it?” your voice is muffled against the pillow, but when you try to sit up he soothes you, his hands keeping you close to his chest.
“Shh, it’s late, go back to sleep” maybe it’s the alcohol that’s causing him to be this soft, it’s definitely the alcohol, but just the thought of fully waking you up makes him feel like the biggest bastard alive.
At his words you melt back into his arms without a second thought, your breath evens out again, and he props his head against his hand to stare at you. “I’m turning into a fuckin’ creep” he mutters to himself, but he can’t stop himself.
You have a small mark on your cheek, probably from sleeping on your hand, and he tilts his head down to press a kiss against it, when your faint voice catches his attention. “You had fun?”
A small, genuine smile softens his face, and he hums. “I did baby”.
It’s not a lie, not really, he enjoyed seeing the squad, but in this small intimate moment, all he can think about is how lucky he is to have an angel like you.
fanfiction is getting less interaction, people barely reblog anymore, role players are getting pushed out of fandom, ai generated slop winning art contests
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